


Scout's Australian Christmas

by UglyCemetery



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyCemetery/pseuds/UglyCemetery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the mall fiasco, the Spirit of Australian Christmas exacts his revenge on an unsuspecting RED Scout. Now it's up to his team and Miss Pauling to save him. A harrowing and ridiculous rescue mission to Antarctica ensues. Based on the TF2 "Smissmas Story" comic series. *REDONE AS OF 09/25/13*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Capture

It was well after midnight when the RED Scout was finally able to retreat to the locker room inside the RED team's headquarters. It had been a long, dusty day of doing what he did best: running, shooting, maiming, killing, and having copious amounts of women throwing their panties at him. Ok, so that last bit was a lie but Scout smiled at the notion nonetheless. He managed to only have to respawn twice that day; a personal record, although he'd never admit to it happening at all. The one drawback of being fast enough to arrive to the capture point first was also the possibility of being blown up or shot first by the enemy. First to arrive, first to die. Still, despite making a full recovery from the day's mission, Scout found himself to be achier than usual. He twisted his head from one side to the other, relishing in the cracking noise his neck made, and sat on a row of benches with a giant sigh.

It was a chilly night in Teufort. The dry air rushing down into the valley brought with it the promise of a cold Christmas later that week. The headquarters showed little signs of holiday cheer, naturally, unless you counted Demoman slurring carols in the kitchen as he polished off another bottle of Scrumpy. It didn't bother Scout, though. He was never a "Christmas" person, anyway.

Scout chuckled. He was reminded of the front page of yesterday's  _Teufort Times_. Oh man, did BLU team have it bad. A stint of community service at the mall? And was the BLU Scout wearing  _elf ears_?

_Man, how embarassin'. I'd rather die._

Scout shook his head, deciding his mind was too full to throw in the towel for the night. He decided a good run was in order. He only got in 10 miles that day; stuff of amateurs. Slapping his thighs, he stood up and headed out of the locker room. He passed idly through a labyrinth of concrete hallways when something caught the corner of his eye out a nearby window. He stopped and narrowed his eyes, staring outside for several seconds. He could have sworn he saw something fly by, but while he scanned the area, nothing appeared.

"I must need a jog more than I thought," he said to himself, shaking his head. It would do good to clear his mind. Scout left the room and jogged sloppily into the common area of the base; an open room with a few lumpy couches, galley, and television. Not really a living room, per say, but just enough to provide some basic comforts of home in between battles.

Heavy was sitting on one of the couches, polishing his massive minigun.

"Yo, what's up, Tiny?" Scout asked as he walked by.

"Sasha has smudge," Heavy answered, concentrating hard on his work.

Scout didn't bother asking for elaboration. He headed for the door and reached for the knob when he heard a noise. He paused and listened. It sounded distant yet right outside the door and faintly reminded him of...

_Bells?_

Scout looked over his shoulder at the Heavy. "You hearin' this?"

Heavy didn't have time to grant an answer. The door flew open violently, smacking Scout right in the face. He cried out and fell back on his rear, clutching his bleeding nose.

"Ow! What the-?"

 _Intruder alert! Intruder alert!_ The voice of the Administrator was deafening.

The alarms blared throughout the headquarters. It wouldn't be long before the other mercenaries flooded into the foyer to see what the trouble was. In the meantime, Scout could only gape up from the floor as a looming shadow stepped forward. The first thing he saw was the skull of a massive reindeer perched atop the head of a tall, menacing figure, like a crown. It was an old man. His black boots became scuffed with dirt as he stepped over the dusty threshold. His red overcoat seemed almost comically oversized on him compared to his long, slender black pants, held up with suspenders. A koala carcass hung from his shoulders like armor. Beady, white eyes scanned the room; sunken cheeks etched with wrinkles, scars, and malice. Finally, he looked downward at the Scout and smiled.

"Ah, there you are," the man finally spoke. His voice was deep and graveled. "How convenient."

_Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!_

"Yes, yes, we know," came the annoyed voice of the Spy as he entered the foyer. The other mercenaries quickly followed, also apathetic to the idea of any  _real_ danger being presented to them. Heavy, who had been watching the scene unfold from the couch with a sort of wonder, finally took it upon himself to stand and hoist Sasha to his hip, ready to fire. They all expected to find a member of the BLU team causing trouble at their doorstep; it wouldn't be the first time. But when they found themselves staring at the 7 foot tall figure of a sneering old man in his reindeer skull hat, they could only stop and stare in amazement.

Before anyone could so much as take a breath, the man reached down with one arm and pulled the Scout up by the neck.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Scout protested, doing his best to pry the man's fingers apart. He began kicking out but it was like hitting his feet against a brick wall. The old man didn't budge. "Guys! Get 'im off!"

"Did you  _honestly_ think I'd meet my demise through a pathetic  _child_?" the old man growled.

"Look, man! I have no freakin' clue what you're talkin' about!" Scout pleaded, finding the whole situation too bizarre for his own tastes. He attempted to twist the old man's wrist but it remained as steady as an iron bar.

"Who are you?" the Spy asked calmly, raising his revolver and taking aim at the intruder.

This seemed to smack the other mercs out of their stupor and a sudden resounding series of clicking hammers echoed through the room.

"Have you forgotten me already?" the intruder asked. "Well, that's not surprising. You did seem especially idiotic yesterday. Honestly, an  _icicle_? I'm 240 years old. It will take a lot more than that."

"Yesterday?" the Scout repeated. "Wait. Are you that psycho that attacked BLU team at the mall? You got the wrong base! This is the RED team, man!"

"You're Nicolas Crowder," the Sniper suddenly said, feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he shouldered past the Spy. "But...you can't be. You're just a scary bedtime story for kids."

"Am I?" Crowder asked in amusement. "Well, you just keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, since this pathetic hellion took it upon himself to deprive me of my usual slaves for my workshop this year, he's going to have to compensate for them. I don't usually take them this old but I'll make an exception just this once."

"Are you freakin' deaf!?" Scout asked, still struggling. "You've got the wrong base! You betta put me down before I bash in your ugly face!"

"What, with more wrapping paper?" Crowder asked sarcastically.

Scout had had enough. He called out for his comrades. "Yo! Guys! Shoot this moron!"

Once again, the mercenaries raised their weapons and took aim.

"You've got three seconds, maggot," the Soldier warned.

Scout coughed as the grip on this throat tightened. "Don't give him a frickin' deadline! Just shoot 'im!"

Crowder only grinned as he stared down the eyes of the mercenaries before him. "Fools."

The Soldier reached "three" and in a fury of explosive bangs and a cloud of smoke, the room erupted in gun fire. The battle ensued for what seemed like an eternity before the shots tapered off and, one by one, they realized that Nicolas Crowder was still standing in the same spot he had been, but he wasn't dead; he wasn't even injured. Around him and the Scout was a green and red glowing, swirling haze. And within that haze were the hundreds of bullets and grenades fired at him; crowded around him like an audience and suspended in the air. Crowder gave a devious, toothy grin.

"My very own aurora australis."

It was then that Scout, who had braced himself for his own death and imminent respawn, opened his eyes and watched in horror as Crowder gave a snap of his bony fingers and the aurora exploded outwards in a shower of electric light and bullets. The eight mercenaries flew back and were hit by their own ammo, dying instantly and disappearing to respawn.

Nicolas Crowder wasted no more time. He turned around with Scout still in his grasp and stepped out into the night.

Scout continued to shout obscenities and struggle, but try as he might, Crowder seemed impervious to his attacks. He walked calmly to a large sleigh being pulled by night scarred and mangy kangaroos. The reality of the situation was hitting Scout like a ton of bricks.

"I ain't gettin' in that!" His voice was laced with panic and he desperately called out for his teammates. "Guys! C'mon!"

Crowder threw the Scout haphazardly into the back of the sleigh and before the mercenary could jump out, the swirling lights of the aurora encompassed it and trapped him inside. He tried to barrel through it but was met with a high voltage jolt of electricity and fell back unconscious. Nicolas Crowder got into the front of the sleigh, grabbed the reigns, and gave a flick of his thin wrists. The loud " _clink!_ " of a bullet neatly embedding itself in the shiny, red metal was ignored and the sleigh lifted into the air; pulled by the skeletal marsupials.

Crowder grinned as the newly-respawned mercenaries ran behind him, discharging their weapons at will. They cursed and spat but their voices died out with the distance and soon, the only noise that Crowder could hear was the roar of the wind as he soared through the night sky. Within seconds, Teufort was nothing more than a dot of light in the middle of a distant black, desolate landscape.

* * *

"So let me get this straight. You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that an old man has broken into your base, bested nine heavily-armed mercenaries, and kidnapped the fastest member of your team?"

The eight remaining RED team members exchanged nervous glances. They stood before a small monitor and microphone located inside their communications room, wondering just how they were going to explain to the Administrator that a geriatric psychopath kicked down the door to their headquarters, grabbed Scout, and then flew off into the night in a glowing sleigh pulled by kangaroos.

Sniper stepped forward. "Lemme," he whispered to the others and cleared his throat, addressing the Administrator on the screen in front of him. "This wasn't no ordinary bloke. He was Nicolas Crowder."

The Administrator glared at him. "Who?"

"The Spirit of Australian Christmas. It's said that a week before Christmas, he finds all the naughty-"

"I don't  _care_  who it was!" the Administrator interrupted. "Why didn't you deal with him?"

"We fired upon him," the Spy explained, calmly. "The bullets had no effect."

"He had force field," the Heavy added.

"Stop right there," the Administrator said, holding up her hand dismissively. "There isn't enough aspirin in the world to fend off the headache I'm getting from listening to your senseless, incoherent babbling. I don't want to hear your excuses as to why you're too incompetent and weak to fight off elderly Australians. You have 24 hours to get your Scout back. If your team isn't fully assembled by tomorrow night and ready for the next mission, you can consider all of your contracts expired!"

The feed on the monitor abruptly cut off and the eight mercenaries found themselves staring at the fizzled black and white static on the screen. Several moments of silence passed before Demoman finally spoke.

"Well,  _tha'_ went nicely. So...wha' now, then?"

The Spy sighed, his cigarette dangling from his lips as he spoke. "Now...we find a way to get to Antarctica."

* * *

Scout had hoped, when he wearily woke up, that he had merely been dreaming and that he was warm and sprawled out in his bed. Unfortunately, he found himself laying on a cold, concrete floor instead. He attempted to squint through the blinding light that surrounded him and the brutal headache that crept all the way down his neck but his eyes refused to adjust. It took several seconds before a towering figure came into focus. An automatic panic gripped him and immediately attempted to stand but he stumbled and fell back down. Last night's events were not a dream, as Scout found out with great dread. He really had been taken from the RED headquarters and his kidnapper now stood in front of him.

Scout clenched his teeth and looked up to find Nicolas Crowder towering above him, his hands calmly wrapped behind his back.

"You betta let me go!" Scout warned, breathing heavily and doing his best to sound brave.

Crowder grinned. "Or  _what_?"

Steam was practically pouring out of Scout's ears. He managed to gather his strength and stand on wobbly legs, bracing himself against a nearby wall. A wave of nausea washed over him and he wrapped an arm around his stomach, glaring daggers at Crowder. If only he didn't feel like he had been run over by a bus, he'd charge forward and knock the geezer's crooked teeth out of that putrid maw right then and there.

Nicolas smiled condescendingly. He knew what the young man in front of him was thinking and he knew he was in no position to follow through. "Oh, save your energy," he said, dismissively. "You're going to need it for the next 365 days."

The color drained from the Scout's face. "What the hell'r you talkin' about?"

Crowder smiled slowly, relishing in the fear in Scout's voice. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Scout clenched his jaw and refused to show any visible signs of fear despite his heart pounding in his chest. What he wouldn't give to have his trusty baseball bat...

"And to think you have an Australian on your team," Crowder continued, tutting his tongue in shame. "I am the Spirit of Australian Christmas. And you are my servant. For the next year, you will do everything I tell you and build me weapons made to my exact specifications. If you fail to meet these requirements, your punishment will be swift and severe..."

"Bite me."

A split second had passed and Crowder was standing before the Scout, his spidery fingers wrapping around the mercenary's neck and pinning him against the wall. Automatically, the Scout opened his mouth to spit obscenities and made to break Crowder's fingers but a sudden jolt of red, hot pain assaulted his every nerve. He cried out, feeling wave after wave of electricity course through his body. The same red and green wisps of light that had surrounded Crowder during his assault on the RED team once again returned and encompassed the Scout's upper body. His sweaty fingers clawed at Crowder's hand but his strength was fleeting with every passing second. Before Scout could pass out, Crowder released his grip and the attack ended as quickly as it had begun.

Scout collapsed to the ground, sliding down the wall and falling to his knees. He was gasping for air and clutching his chest; his heart pounding painfully. His lungs felt dry as he wheezed. A few droplets of blood escaped his nose and plopped on the concrete floor.

"As I was saying," Crowder continued, clearing his throat, "swift and severe. Do you understand?"

Scout couldn't answer. His chest was still heaving from Crowder's brutal attack. His mind was reeling and refused to wrap around the concept that he was truly screwed, that Crowder just brought a trained killer to his knees by simply touching him, and that maybe he was exactly who he said he was.

"Don't make me repeat the question, boy," Crowder warned.

Not wanting to risk another assault, the Scout grit his teeth through his exhaustion and complied. "...Yeah."

"Good. Now get to work."

Nicolas Crowder did not acknowledge the Scout any further and turning his back on the young man, he exited through a large metal door. It closed behind him with a low, ominous groan.

Scout spent the next several minutes trying to regain his strength and wrap his mind around the situation. His muscles recovered quickly, but his thoughts refused to unscramble. Feeling frustrated and defiant, he wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, staining his athletic bandages red, and looked around the floor for his brown cap. He found it several feet away and dusted off the top before squaring it away on his head. Scout then looked up to gauge his surroundings. He was in a large cement room housing four long wooden tables strewn with various tools, blue prints, bullets, and metal parts. Supporting himself on the tables' edge as he walked amongst them, he saw that the workshop was small, and not just in square footage. The tables, benches, and even the light switches were all lower than normal as if they were created specifically with children in mind.

The air was musty and smelled of iron, gunpowder, and burnt plastic. Various brown splotches stained the wooden tabletops and Scout hoped that it was anything but dried blood. He found a rolled-up blueprint and idly unfurled it. It was like Russian to him. He couldn't even put a bike together in the fifth grade; how was he expected to put together a double-barreled CZ 550 .585 caliber rifle?

_Soldier and Engineer'd know what to do. They'd love this crap._

Deciding he'd seen enough and still nursing the wounds from his previous humiliating defeat at the hands of a crazed geriatric wearing a reindeer skull for a hat, Scout shoved the blueprint away and put his game face on. He'd find a way out of this hell hole if it was the last thing he did. He wasn't going to give Crowder the satisfaction of knowing he was scared enough to follow any of his rules.

"You're gonna wish ya never stepped foot in Teufort, pal."

* * *

"What is it, Miss Pauling?" the Administrator asked, her voice taking on an air of annoyance. Her patience really had been tried and she was in no mood for her assistant's constant hovering.

Miss Pauling was caught slightly off guard. She stood behind the Administrator's chair, hugging her clipboard to her chest like a security blanket as she stared worriedly at the wall of monitors before her. The Administrator sat in her swivel chair, her back to Miss Pauling; the only indication that she was even there was the smoke rising from her burning cigarette.

"Um," Miss Pauling said meekly, "it's just...the Scout, ma'am. Do you think he's alright?"

The Administrator gave a long sigh and flicked her cigarette ash into a nearby tray. "Miss Pauling, these imbeciles spend day after day trying to blow each other up..."

"I know. It's just that...well, they  _are_ assassins so I just think it's troubling to know that someone out there got the best of one of them. Especially the Scout."

"You act as if we know him."

"Well...don't we?"

The Administrator swiveled around in her chair to face her assistant. She crossed her long legs and leaned her elbow on the armrest, waving her cigarette around as she spoke. "Miss Pauling, the only thing I care to know about these men is if they are doing their jobs. If that idiot Scout has run off, I consider it a breach of his contract and his job here will be finished."

Miss Pauling's concerns were even more intensified. "But what if he hasn't run off? What if he really is in trouble?"

The Administrator took a long drag of her cigarette, her eyes narrowing and boring into her assistant. "You're beginning to make me think you actually care about him."

Miss Pauling's cheeks instantly flushed and her eyes widened. "No! I mean...I care...but not like...that's not what I meant."

Seeing her become so flustered, the Administrator almost laughed; but instead she only turned her chair back around towards the monitors and watched as the BLU team continued on with planning their supposed "rescue" mission. There were several tense moments of silence as Miss Pauling remained stationary and stared at the floor; her cheeks and ears still red and burning. The Administrator's voice broke her from her spell.

"Is there something  _else,_ Miss Pauling?"

"...No, ma'am. Have a nice night."

And with that, Miss Pauling quickly made her exit; unable to ignore the gnawing worry that flooded her mind.

* * *

The RED team sat situated around a round dining room table in the commons of their headquarters. It was well into the early morning hours and the supply of coffee in the kitchen was running thin. They had been gathered for hours, deciding how to rescue their Scout and keep their jobs. Their first course of action was figuring out just where the Scout was. It took Sniper several tries before he finally convinced everyone that he was, indeed, at the South Pole.

The abduction was almost like a figment of their imaginations. No one wanted to admit that despite a base full of trained mercenaries armed to the teeth, an old man claiming to be the Spirit of Australian Christmas broke in and stole a member of their team. The  _fastest_ member of their team. But none of them could deny what they saw; how Crowder seemed to have unimaginable strength and powers. They didn't want to believe they were dealing with something supernatural but they had no choice but to relent.

So if Nicolas Crowder really did live in the South Pole like Sniper said, the next task was figuring out just exactly how they'd get there and get the Scout back. It was after several suggestions flew about that Demoman recommended that the Engineer simply build a teleporter.

"It don't work like that," Engineer replied. "I'd have to be  _at_ the South Pole just to build the exit."

"Why can't we fly airplane?" the Heavy asked.

"Oh,  _aye_ ," Demoman responded sarcastically, his Scottish brogue slurring from his constant state of inebriation. "Allow me ta jus' pull an airplane ou' of me back pocket!"

The Spy glared at the Demoman, silently scolding him, and flicked ash from his cigarette. He turned back to Heavy. "Acquiring an airplane and a pilot insane enough to shuttle us to the end of the world will be more than a bit difficult."

"You left wing sissies!" the Soldier shouted gruffly. "Why, back in World War II, we soldiers had to  _swim_ across the Atlantic just for a chance to kill some nazi scum! Did we have airplanes? NO!"

"Yes, you did, actually," the Spy said flatly. "And we are not s _wimming_ to Antarctica. An airplane and Engineer's teleporter are the only way, unfortunately."

The Pyro muffled something.

"That is a very good question," sighed the Spy. "Suggestions?"

The Medic was mentally kicking himself for already encouraging this reckless and impossible idea. "Zhere is a military base not too far from here."

Everyone looked at Soldier. If it were possible, his chest boasted out even further as he beamed and gave a salute. "Say no more, men! I accept your mission with great honor!"

"So, are we actually goin' to do this?" the Engineer asked everyone at the table. "Commandeer a plane and  _fly_ to the South Pole as if we're simply hoppin' on a bus? And then what? I build a teleporter back to Teufort?" It was a rhetorical question yet the others stared at him as if he hit the nail right on the head. Engineer sighed and shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fellas, the teleporters ain't designed to cover that big'a distance. This is really stupid. And you're talkin' about a 9,000 mile trip. There ain't a plane on earth that can cover that. Look...I say we just let things run its course. If we're lucky, Crowder'll kill Scout before our 24 hours are up and he'll respawn back here in headquarters."

"No, he wont," said a small, female voice from the doorway.

The Spy was the only one to notice Miss Pauling enter the room. The other mercenaries stumbled from their hunched positions in a mild state of alarm and stood as the Administrator's assistant walked in; the sound of their wooden seats scraping against the floor as they moved. She stopped just shy of the table and bit her lip.

"He won't respawn," she repeated. "The respawn chips aren't designed to function outside of Teufort. They're for missions only unless the Administrator calibrates them for longer distances. I overheard you guys talking. So...this is your plan? Stealing an airplane and flying to the bottom of the world?"

"Genius, non?" Spy deadpanned.

"You...you might be able to do it."

Eyes widened and backs straightened across the room. No one needed to ask Miss Pauling to continue; the anxiousness in their eyes spoke volumes. Miss Pauling sighed and mumbled something under her breath about 'losing her job' and let her shoulder slump.

"Australium," she said. "It's the element used in the innovation of almost every advanced technological machine by Mann Co. Teleporters, cloaking devices, things you've heard of. And some things you haven't."

If the eight men in the room weren't interested before, they certainly had their ears perked now. Especially Engineer.

"I know of an aircraft that might work. And a pilot to get you there. But it's going to cost  _a lot_ of Australium _._ More than the Administrator is willing to spend. Especially on you guys...no offense."

Miss Pauling cast her eyes to the floor. However, the mercenaries seemed unfazed by their apparent worthless status.

"I can get some," Engineer said suddenly, a tremble of excitement in his voice.

It was Miss Pauling's turn to be surprised. Her eyes widened behind her cat eyeglasses. "What? How?"

Memories flooded the Engineer's brain of his meeting with Blutarch Mann several months ago. His grandfather had built both Blutarch and Redmond Mann life-extender machines as the brothers waged war on each other for decades over a swatch of land. As the two siblings tried to outdo each other in all aspects of life, the only thing they could do now with their decrepit and rotting, ancient bodies was just keep their shriveled hearts beating longer than the other. It was the Engineer's grandfather who had discovered the scattered deposits of Australium throughout Australia and brought some of them to America, storing them in strategic caches across the desert. The Engineer had fixed Blutarch's wretched life-extender machine, but not before tucking his grandfather's map of Australium caches under his belt, so to speak. They were rightfully his, anyhow. He hadn't spoken a word of it, though. Not until now. A motherload of such expensive and rare metals could start a war if discovered by the wrong people; a war that would make RED and BLU's battles seem like a school yard rivalry.

"Give me an hour," Engineer said with a newfound determination. "I'll get you the Australium. You just get me that plane and pilot."

"Now hold on a wee minute!" Demoman butt in. "We're nae actually thinkin' of doin' this...are we? Are yeh all  _insane_?"

 _Is that a rhetorical question?_ Miss Pauling thought as she looked around the table at the eight crazed assassins standing around her. "You're a team," she said calmly.

Soldier puffed his chest out. "She's right, maggots! Leave no man behind!"

Well, that settled it...sort of. The men exchanged a few more glances at one another, their expressions asking one another if they were truly up for such an impossible task. No amount of reassuring would help them focus on anything more than the highly probable scenario of dying horribly.

"We may be a team, Miss Pauling, but what about you?" Spy asked smugly, dropping his cigarette on the floor and snuffing it out with his heel. "Why are you showing such an interest in a very foolish rescue mission?"

There was something new Miss Pauling suddenly felt pouring into her. It wasn't embarrassment or even fear. It wasn't even a hint of angst. Yet, the color of her cheeks continued to change into various shades of pink. She cleared her throat and held her head up high. No sense in lying.

"Because. He'd do the same for me. He'd do the same for any of you. Scout is an arrogant asshole..." The team nodded. "...but he's loyal. He's probably the most dedicated member of your team...even though it's in a reckless, annoying sort of way. And because it's my job to make sure you all are accounted for."

"I see." Spy lit up another cigarette, squinting as he took an extra long drag and exhaled through his teeth. "Well, then. That settles it. Gentlemen? I suggest we leave Miss Pauling and Engineer to their duties. We all have our own preparations to make as well."

The Spy spun on his heels and made for the door. The others watched his back.

"Where are  _you_ goin, then'?" the Sniper asked.

Spy looked over his shoulder; cigarette bouncing on his lips. "To speak to the BLU team."


	2. The Intel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout attempts to escape from Crowder's compound with disastrous results. Meanwhile, after the Administrator gives the RED team a problematic ultimatum, the Spy visits the BLU team to get information.

It had been an hour and the Scout found that, despite heavy pounding and kicking, the metal door to his prison would not budge. His finger tips were stinging and stained with rust as he put all his strength into prying the hinges out using various tools he found strewn across the tables. He banged his palms on the metal door a few more times before letting out a frustrated yell, grabbing the nearest object, and throwing it against the wall. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smashed satisfyingly into a million pieces and littered the floor.

"You fuckin' prick! Open this door!" he shouted but the door remained bolted.

It was amazing how quickly Scout had regained his pride following Crowder's previous attack. He was itching for a fight now; anything to blow off steam. And throwing things just wasn't cutting it. Even though Crowder showed that he could reduce him to a heap of writhing pain on the floor with a single touch, Scout's fighter spirit was burning hotter than ever.

The young man grit his teeth and let out a disgruntled growl. Perhaps he wasn't using enough force to pry the hinges off the door. There had to be a mallet or heavy piece of metal somewhere amongst the tools and scraps. Scout launched himself at the workshop tables and swept his hands over the piles of junk.

"Yes!" he hissed when he finally found what he was looking for. A hammer.

Scout flipped it in the air and caught it by the handle expertly. A smug grin crept across his face and he immediately got to work to loosen the bolts holding the door shut. He jutted the claw of the hammer up into whatever miniscule space he could find within the hinge and pried the handle down with every drop of strength he had. But the door still refused to give.

"C'mon!" Scout growled.

He pressed his shoulder into the door, keeping his elbows close to his body as he continued to pull the hammer downwards, attempting to give himself as much leverage as possible. His face turned red and he held his breath, pulling and pulling until  _CRACK!_

Scout was on the floor before he knew what hit him. The hammer had broken in half, sending the heavy, metal head of the tool spiraling through the air and hitting him square in the face. For the next few seconds, Scout could have swore he saw reindeer dancing around in circles in front of his face. A nice, puffy bruise was already forming above his right brow. He groaned and shook his head, banishing his hallucinations and feeling the full brunt of the pain beginning to ebb forward. It was then, as his vision began to clear, that he found himself laying flat on his back and staring up at the most beautiful sight he ever laid eyes on (other than Miss Pauling, of course). A ventilation shaft.

Scout's wits had never returned to him so quickly. He launched himself off the floor, ignoring a fresh wave of vertigo, and stared up at the grate above him that blocked his only means of escape. He reached up for it and then finally jumped, feeling his fingertips brush against the cold metal. Glancing around the room frantically, Scout looked for something to stand on. First, he tried to move the tables but they were bolted to the floor. Next, he set his heart on a stack of small, wooden crates in the corner. He couldn't be sure if they would even hold his weight but it was the only thing he could try. He practically threw them across the room towards the area where the vent was and they crashed loudly into each other as they tumbled over the floor. Scout stacked them so that they offered the most leverage and stability. Even so, they only allowed him a foot or so off the floor. He carefully stepped up onto the wobbly boxes and balanced himself with his arms out at each side. When he was sure he had a foothold, he reached up for the ceiling, wrapped his fingers around the cage-like grate, and gave it a firm tug.

"Ha. Piece'a cake."

The ventilation cover swung down and hung by its hinges towards the floor, swinging idly. Scout clumsily scrambled off the boxes and hurried towards the workshop tables, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. A long piece of thin iron would suffice and he shoved it into his belt like a sheathed sword. Breathing heavily, Scout clambered up onto the crates once more and hooked his fingers around the edges of the shaft above him. With a groan and a kick of his feet, he muscled himself upwards and climbed into the opening, army crawling forward until he was completely inside the tunnel before stopping to rest and survey his surroundings. He wasn't sure where he'd end up or if he'd even find an escape, but Scout hoped that maybe he'd pop out into the arid New Mexico desert and that everything he'd been through, so far, was the result of a bump on the head.

* * *

It was hard for the RED Spy not to go into full stealth mode as he silently approached the BLU team headquarters. The crunching of gravel underneath his shoes was rhythmic and somewhat therapeutic with every step. Golden light pooling out from the windows of the base cast an eerie glow across his face. He stopped before the entrance, taking several puffs of his cigarette and trying to figure out just how, exactly, he was going to gain access. Even though they weren't in mission mode, members of the enemy team can still be a little...testy. Grudges held strong.

The Spy gave a little grunt of amusement and blew a thick trail of smoke into the air.

"Maintenant ou jamais," he muttered.  _Now or never..._

He moved forward to cautiously knock upon the front entrance, feeling exposed and foolish, when he heard something to his right. It was the barely audible but unmistakable sound of someone adjusting their footing in the gravel. The Spy looked around suspiciously and unsheathed his Ambassador, keeping it pointed towards the sky tightly against his chest. He pressed himself against the outside wall of the establishment. Adrenaline began coursing through his veins; it was enough to almost make him grin. Very slowly and deliberately, the Spy approached a corner of the base and was about to round it, gun at the ready, when a sudden intuition told him to turn around. Thankfully, he listened to his instincts for he barely had time to block the downward thrust of a massive kukri. It was the BLU Sniper, attacking with an animalistic ferocity.

The Sniper grunted in frustration every time he swiped the knife through the air and missed his intended target. The Spy evaded his every attack with a deft, expert swiftness. To anyone watching, their movements were almost artistic; like a dance. Both highly practiced in their craft, the tango of jabs, ducks, and blocks continued evenly matched. It wasn't until the Sniper stopped trying to slash at the Spy and shouldered into him instead that the battle reached a stalemate. The Spy's back hit the concrete wall of the building and the wind was knocked from him. He raised his gun and pulled back the hammer just as the Sniper was upon him, kukri raised and poised at the Spy's neck. Both men stood there for the next several seconds, panting from their excursions and refusing to lower their weapons.

"Well, where do you suppose we go from here, my dear friend?" asked the Spy, finding the whole situation rather amusing.

The BLU Sniper, having not forgotten the many scores he had to settle with the RED Spy, only grit his teeth and pressed the blade of his knife harder against the neck of his enemy. "You've got a lotta nerve showin' up here. I outta gut you like a pig! "

"Oh, come now, Sniper. You mustn't take your constant defeat so personally," said the Spy, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We are gentlemen here, non?"

"There's only one gentleman here. The other's a back stabbin' coward!"

Spy chuckled and tutted. "A pity you see yourself that way."

Sniper snarled and pressed the blade of his knife up under the Spy's Adam's apple enough to draw a thin, red line of blood. Spy cleared his throat, feeling the time had come to put an end to the banter and reveal his true motive before he was given a Columbian necktie.

"Alright, very well," he sighed in defeat. "I am here to speak to your team about a certain matter that occurred yesterday."

Sniper narrowed his eyes. "What  _matter_?"

"The one involving a certain 'Spirit of Australian Christmas' and a shopping mall."

The Sniper's features softened slightly; his interest piqued. "He's dead. Stabbed in the neck-"

"He's alive. And he has our Scout."

"What the hell do ya want us t'do about it? That's your problem."

"It was your Scout, Soldier, and Spy that encountered this 'problem' yesterday. Crowder does not distinguish between BLU and RED. And neither does the Administrator."

The Sniper slowly lowered the kukri from the Spy's neck. "What are you gettin' at?"

"Well, if we do not get Scout back in 24 hours, the Administrator will consider it a breach of contract and we will all be terminated."

"...Metaphorically or literally?"

The Spy raised an eyebrow, looking at the Sniper condescendingly as if to ask,  _Are you kidding me?_ Sniper seemed to understand. Slowly, he backed off from his nemesis and lowered his knife to his side. He nodded towards the main entrance of the headquarters, gesturing the Spy to move.

"They ain't gonna to be happy to see you," he warned.

Spy smiled, holstering his revolver. "No one on your team ever is."

* * *

It had seemed like a decade had passed when the Scout finally came across another ventilation grate in the ceiling of another room. Dim, orange light cast eerie, checkered shadows on the walls of the shaft and Scout's face as he peered downward. A deep chill was rising from the grill of the ventilation cover and Scout relished in the relief it provided for his tired, sweating body. The room he peered into looked much different from the workshop. Gone were the concrete walls and industrial setting and replaced by stone walls and medieval-looking lanterns. It reminded Scout of a dungeon, except there were no visible signs of the room ever holding prisoners. In fact, there was little evidence that the room had ever been walked into at all.

"What a freak," Scout muttered to himself.

He moved on. It wasn't long before he came to a fork in the vent and he was faced with the difficult task of maneuvering around a tight corner. He hissed in pain when the sharp edge of the adjoining shaft pressed into his stomach as he wriggled his body around it until he finally was facing the direction he wanted to go. It occurred to him, suddenly, that the air in the ventilation shaft was becoming more cold and less stagnant. A chilled breeze assaulted his reddening nose, causing his eyes to water. Where it was once relief across his heated body, the Scout now found himself shivering.

_What kind of moron turns the air conditionin' on in the middle of December?_

Scout shook his head in disbelief and soldiered on. Up ahead, he could see another square of checkered light. As he crawled towards it, the metal rod sheathed against his hip scraping lightly against the aluminum of the vent, the cool air worsened. The sour stench of manure and wet hay intensified every time he inched closer. When he finally came across the top of the grate, the metal was so cold against his fingertips that it stung his flesh. The acrid stench became overwhelming. He looked down and gazed into a large, stable-like room. The eight "flying" kangaroos that had pulled him to his demise grazed listlessly on stale hay and oats. They were either oblivious to Scout observing them from above or indifferent altogether. Scout hoped it was the latter. He knew this was the first room he had come across that held any promise of escape. The stable  _had_  to lead outside.

"All right," Scout said to himself. "Here goes nothin'."

His fingers wrapped around the holes in the grate and he pushed it as quietly as he could. The metal trap swung downward and hung on its hinges with a high-pitched squeal. Scout froze. A few kangaroos looked up curiously for a moment but returned to graze soon after. Letting out a sigh of relief, Scout braced himself on the edges of the open shaft and eased his legs down towards the floor, dangling for a moment before dropping to his feet. He brushed off his clothes and looked around to make sure his surroundings were still docile; only moving when he felt confident he wasn't going to get mauled by rabid marsupials. A few kangaroos looked up at him as they grazed on their cud but showed little, if any, interest in him.

Scout noticed it was colder now that he was on the ground and followed the draught in an attempt to find where it was originating from. The cool air brought him to a corner of the L shaped room and he cautiously peered down a corridor of stables. It was dark at the end; so dark that he wondered if it was even worth it to check it out but his reckless curiosity got the best of him. Maybe there would be a door.

For a brief moment, Scout thought he heard the rustling of hay but couldn't tell if it was coming from ahead of him or all around him. The kangaroos were grazing non-stop. Cautiously, he unsheathed the iron bar from his belt and held it poised over his shoulder, ready to attack or defend himself. His steps were slow and deliberate, his neck craned out to catch a glimpse of anything down the dark passageway, and his hands clutched the iron bar with sweaty, tingling fingers. The rustling was now unmistakable. Scout couldn't tell if he was trembling from the temperature or from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He pinpointed the noise to the far left stable and kept to the right as much as possible. But when he finally was close enough to see inside the hay-strewn kennel, there was nothing there. His shoulders slumped and he let the iron weapon fall to his side, giving a great big sigh of relief. And to his delight, Scout also saw a large dungeon door, locked with a single bar of wood.

"Oh, yeah!" he whooped in triumph and tucked the iron bar back into his belt.

The air coming from the seams of the door was absolutely frigid but Scout paid it no heed. He braced his shoulder underneath the wooden bar and prepared to heave it up and away when the rustling sound returned. This time, there was no mistaking; it was coming from right behind him. Scout froze, his eyes widening. Very slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw the brown, furry chest of a large creature. His gaze traveled upwards until he came nose to nose with a fuming, gigantic kangaroo. Crowder's  _lead_ kangaroo. Foam was dripping from its mouth and scars of past battles dotted its face. It was a beast of an animal; twice as big as the others. Scout had never felt so small.

It seemed like they stayed that way forever; locked in a frozen standoff. His eyes broke the staring contest for only a split second to gauge how far away the corridor was. It was all the lapse in concentration the kangaroo needed. Scout's muscles barely twitched into action when he was kicked violently backwards into the double door; the back of his head smacking against the wood. Blurs of light danced across his vision and his lungs refused to fill with air. He slumped to the floor, doubled over and gasping. Crowder's kangaroo poised itself to strike with its hind legs again and Scout, relying only on pure fight or flight, rolled out of the way at the last second. The sound of the kangaroo's giant claws slicing off large splinters of tinder from the door made Scout's stomach flip. He stumbled to his feet and rounded the L shaped corridor clumsily, using the wall to ricochet his body around the tight corner and into the open stable area where the kangaroos continued to eat, indifferent to the ongoing chaos. Practically defying gravity, Scout double jumped for the opening of the ventilation shaft in the ceiling and barely grasped the edges. His legs dangled for a second before he used every ounce of strength he had to pull his body weight up into the tiny shaft. The kangaroo grabbed at his ankles, ripping holes in his socks and shoes and tearing skin. Scout cried out and kicked his feet furiously, nailing the animal in the snout and finally pulling himself to safety.

He collapsed inside the ventilation shaft, closing his eyes to rest while he regained his breath. Below him, he could hear the kangaroo jumping and clawing at the ceiling.

Scout knew he would have to move soon. The animal was creating too much noise and disturbance to go unnoticed by Crowder for long. And the deep scratches along his ankles were beginning to throb and ooze heavily with thick blood. Anger welled up in him. He had been so close to escape and it was ruined by a psychotic marsupial. Scout didn't think his day could get any more miserable...or weirder. What he wouldn't give to have his Force-A-Nature on hand to blow that stupid kangaroo's maw off. Scout banged his fist against the metal of the vent in frustration and decided it was time to move on and find another way out. Dejectedly, he crawled forward, ignoring the throbbing ache he felt across his body.

* * *

The RED Spy couldn't help but feel incredibly amused at the BLU team's tenacity when it came to precautions against the enemy. As soon as he had stepped foot into the headquarters, he was attacked, en masse, by the Heavy, Scout, and Soldier. He chuckled at them, despite being manhandled against a nearby wall by the Heavy and held by the throat. The sound of various guns cocking filled the room and the cold barrels were pressed against his chest and temple. Of course, BLU Sniper did little to keep his teammates hospitable.

"MAGGOT!" the Soldier barked. "I have a grenade with your name on it!"

"Walkin' in through the front door?" BLU Scout said, smacking his baseball bat against his palm. "You're losin' your touch."

"That's not what your mother said last night," Spy responded with a wicked grin.

The Scout's face turned an angry shade of red and he raised his bat in the air to strike. "Kiss those pearly whites goodbye, ya shapeshiftin' son of a b-!"

Sniper caught the bat in his hand, mid-swing, with a loud  _SMACK!_

"He ain't here on a mission. Put your weapons away."

The Heavy's grip only slightly loosened on the Spy's neck. "No mission?" he asked, his features changing from a cold determination to slight puzzlement. "What then?"

"Who cares? Lemme bash his skull in!"

The Scout engaged in a small game of tug-o-war with his bat versus the Sniper but lost; his weapon ripped from his fingers and kept at bay.

"In a minute," Sniper reassured him. "He's here about that Australian Christmas fella you blokes met at the mall yesterday."

The Scout and the Soldier looked at the Sniper in astonishment and then turned their attention to the Spy. He idly puffed on the cigarette held between his teeth and smirked. Finally, the Heavy released him from his massive grip and the Spy relaxed slightly, fixing his lapel.

"What  _about_ that nut job? He's dead," the Scout told the Spy.

"Oh, really? Then tell me: who has captured my team's Scout? Some  _other_ maniacal gentleman with a reindeer helmet and a sleigh?"

Scout furrowed his eyebrows. "He was stabbed in the neck, man. Ask our Spy. He was the one who set the whole thing up."

"That really is irrelevant now," RED Spy said, dropping the cigarette from his mouth and snuffing it out with his heel. "What  _is r_ elevant is that the Administrator wants that annoying little man back to base by tomorrow or else our contracts are terminated."

"Why should we care about your stupid team?"

The Spy lit up another cigarette from his Spytron 3000, clipped the case shut, and tucked it neatly back inside his jacket. "Because," he said, "this Nicolas Crowder has kidnapped our Scout under the pretenses that he is  _you_. You were the one who had the confrontation at the mall yesterday, yes? We may, perhaps, lose our jobs but it is _you_ who Crowder will come for in the end."

The Scout couldn't hide the fact that that notion made him quite uncomfortable. He paled slightly but tried to play it off. "Pshh. I ain't scared of that old geezer."

"That 'old geezer' wiped my entire team out in one blow. You may have been lucky yesterday, but I assure you he will not be fooled twice. I need to know what you used to fight him."

The Soldier, who had been silently absorbing this information until now, finally spoke. "That is classified information!"

The other team members silently backed him up.

 _What a bunch of moronic baboons,_ Spy thought to himself, feeling a headache creep up his temples.

"Very well," he said. "We will make sure we send him your regards. Gentlemen."

The Spy nodded a polite farewell to his enemies and started for the door. The BLU Scout, Heavy, Sniper, and Soldier watched his back retreat reluctantly. The Scout clenched his fists together at his side and ground his teeth. If the RED team's Scout was overpowered by Nicolas Crowder, then the idea of the creepy old nut job coming back with a vendetta and a bounty on his head made him a little uneasy. He wanted this kidnapping son of a bitch gone for good.

"Yo! It's his helmet," he said. The others looked at him in surprise. The Spy stopped walking but didn't turn around. Scout sheepishly continued. "I...I think it's his helmet. That lame-o reindeer skull one. I caught him off guard when I nailed 'im with an ornament to the head...but wasn't 'til Soldier knocked his helmet off that he became all talk and no walk."

"You are a disgrace! You aren't even being  _tortured_ and you are giving away intel!" Soldier reprimanded the Scout.

"Shut up," Scout argued. "I don't want that creep comin' to my apartment and yankin' me outta bed in the middle of the night!"

The Spy smirked, peering over his shoulders. "Merci. Your information has been very illuminating."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now get the hell outta here before I rearrange that smug face of yours."

The Spy gave a little arrogant wave and exited the building. "Til next time."

"AND STAY AWAY FROM MY MA!"


	3. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout meets a reluctant accomplice and faces off with Crowder. Meanwhile, the RED team finds a way to reach Antarctica.

Cold. That was all that Scout could think of. Long gone were the beads of sweat on his skin; replaced with tiny ice crystals and his breath hung heavily in front of his face with every shaky exhalation. He army-crawled forward, pushing the pain his body was enduring deep down and calling forth all his tenacity. One elbow in front of the other, one puff of breath after another...

It had become clear that this was no normal household air conditioning duct; not unless it led to some sort of industrial freezer. All Scout knew was that an hour ago, he had escaped a homicidal kangaroo in a chilly room and now it was practically subarctic. The skin on his forearms began to sting upon contact with the frigid metal of the shaft. He shivered uncontrollably and felt sleepiness begin to creep up on him.

_C'mon, man. You're from Boston. You should be used to this crap. It snows, like, 20 feet there every year. This ain't nothin'! Move!_

His inner pep talk seemed to work for the time being and he shook his head to clear his vision and continued forward. The tunnel grew darker and colder with every foot he gained. Scout dragged his body listlessly like a crippled soldier on the battlefield. He tried to push with his feet, but he lost feeling in his toes long ago. Scout screwed his eyes shut and took in a slow, trembling breath of air. He found himself unconsciously pulling his arms inward towards his body to conserve heat and thought that, for a moment only, he'd close his eyes and rest. But just as his eyelids shut, he heard a voice that made his heart jump into his throat.

 _"You're being ridiculous. I can handle that little brat just as well as I handle any other,"_ the unmistakable gravely voice of Crowder spoke.

 _"But, sir, he isn't a child,"_ followed another, younger male voice.

The full brunt of Scout's alertness slapped him in the face. He opened his eyes, wondering if he was just dreaming the conversation he was hearing. But they carried on, muffled in the cramped vent. Scout looked forward, noticing that there was another grated opening ahead. Using all of his reserves, he dragged himself forward and ignored the tingling pain that enveloped him from the frost accumulating on his body. When he finally reached the grate, he very carefully peered downward and found himself looking into a hallway. The walls and floor were made of stone. Scout turned his head as much as he could to see where the hall led but all he could make out was a door on one end and more hallway on the other. It was dark and damp and by all means, freezing cold. Scout began to shiver again but he wasn't sure if it was from the chill or from his nerves. He continued to hear the voices of an unknown male and Nicolas Crowder but he couldn't see them, until...

Scout nearly jumped out of his skin. Crowder stopped directly below the vent, facing someone who remained out of sight.

"He is no threat Moesby," Crowder continued his conversation. "He's just an irritating little whelp who doesn't know when to mind his own business."

"But his friends, sir. You said there were more. What if they come looking for him?" the younger man named 'Moesby' asked.

Crowder let out a laugh. "Down at the bottom of the world? No one is going to come for that simpleton."

"...Y-yes, sir."

Crowder disappeared out of Scout's view and the sound of a heavy, wooden door moaning open and shut on its hinges was heard. Moesby, however, remained planted where he stood for a moment. Scout listened and listened and finally, the sound of footsteps faded away as Moesby made his retreat down the other end of the hallway.

Scout didn't want to think about the conversation he just heard. Whether or not they were talking about him, he wasn't going to stick around and find out. He decided it was time to get out of the vent before he froze to death.

Scout unglued himself from the frosted passageway and prepared to lower himself into the hallway below. The grate was a little harder to pry open this time around but Scout managed it with little disturbance, miraculously. Ice crystals fluttered to the ground as he braced himself on the edge of the shaft and dropped down into the corridor, falling over onto his side as his legs gave out underneath him.

Scout winced and sat there, rubbing his hands and arms to get the circulation going again and shivering violently. His fingertips were screaming in pain and pins and needles danced across his calves. A profound itchiness began to plague him as the blood flow returned to his skin. But he knew he couldn't stay there in the open like that. Crowder or Moesby could walk down the hall at anytime and he'd be screwed. Somehow, he didn't think he'd have the strength to pull himself back up into the shaft this time. It was time to move.

Grimacing, Scout hauled himself to his feet, using the wall as support. He could still see his breath in the air, but the open corridor seemed significantly warmer than the air duct. Scout held his hands in front of his mouth and huffed into them to heat them with his breath, looking right and left and deciding on the route he would take. In the direction that Crowder disappeared was a massive double door where it seemed that the majority of cold air was creeping from. Scout decided to go the other way. Moesby didn't sound too threatening. If he ran into him, he knew he could take him down.

Scout sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, feeling his brawn return. He unsheathed the iron bar from his belt and held it at the ready over his shoulders, moving forward cautiously. Each step was taken on the pads of his feet to be as silent as possible. He reached the door at the end of the hallway, pressed his back against the wall, and slowly pushed it open with one arm. The gap in the door revealed no dangers so with one more glance back towards the hall, Scout slipped through the open door and began his search for the way out.

The corridor was quiet and Scout felt horribly vulnerable. He remained as close to the wall as possible, iron weapon held at the ready above his shoulder, and he found himself wishing he was the Spy. At least then he could turn invisible. Hell, he'd do anything just to have his team jeering behind him.

Scout reached the end of the hallway and opened another door. The door creaked on its hinges but Scout squeezed through the small opening he made and closed the door quickly to snuff out the noise. He now found himself in a small, square foyer with two doors; one on the right and one straight ahead. They were all metal and unlabeled.

"Great. Now what?" Scout said dryly.  _Eenie, meenie, miney...mo!_

He chose the door on his right. Not the most diplomatic method but it was all he had, and time was wasting. The doorknob felt warm in his palm and he relished in the relief it brought him before he turned it and peeked his head inside the awaiting room.

Heat blasted the Scout's face. Seeing no one around, he slipped in and found himself in a large area full of furnaces and open pits. A layer of soot coated the ground and stone walls. The furnaces were long dead and cold except for one pot-belly stove burning in the center of the room; coals glowing red and orange in its gaping maw. Fully functioning, the room would have been a hellish environment but now it was nothing more than a depressing, grey abandoned factory. It became clear to Scout, however, just what the room was used for as bins were scattered throughout filled with scraps of swords and other forged weapons. He became lost in his urge to explore.

"Swords? Man, what a dork," Scout snorted, running his fingers along the rusted hilt of a failed dagger.

He shook his head in disbelief and moved further into the room. He wondered how many children were held captive and forced to work in this sweat shop from Hell; forging weapons too heavy for them to even lift on their own. The roar of the furnaces must have been deafening and the heat unbearable. Even with just one stove going, the room was sweltering.

Realizing that the area held no benefit for him, Scout decided to backtrack and return to the hallway. But as he turned around, he heard the creaking of a door. Immediately, he dove behind one of the furnaces and flattened himself against it, iron rod poised in front of him and ready to strike. His heart began to pound and his throat dried up.

Someone entered the room and was walking towards him. The faint jingle of bells could be heard with every quick, shuffling step. Scout licked his lips and readied himself. The footsteps got closer. And closer. And closer still. Until the person was passing by the furnace Scout hid behind.

**_WHACK!_ **

"OW!"

The unsuspecting intruder fell straight back on his rear, clutching his spasming stomach.

"Jeez, what the hell?" Moesby whined, gasping for air. He looked up and saw the Scout, iron rod at the ready, and his eyes went wide. "Woah, hold on a minute! Stop!"

Scout scowled angrily at Moesby and kept the iron bar raised.

"You must be the new guy," Moesby continued. "You've got one hell of a swing."

Scout couldn't help but stare at the man he hit with a mixture of pity and anger. He was, by all means, Crowder's accomplice but he just looked so...ridiculous. Moesby couldn't have been much older than Scout and he had on green and yellow wrist cuffs adorned with bells, striped stockings, and a stocking cap to compliment his green jacket and pants. And his  _ears._ They were  _pointed._ Like a real elf.

"How'd you get out of the workshop?" a baffled Moesby asked.

"Shut up! Who are you?" Scout demanded to know.

"Well, how am I supposed to answer that question if I'm supposed to shut up?"

Scout raised the iron bar higher into the air and Moesby put his hands up defensively.

"Ok! Ok! My name is M-"

"Moesby. I know. I heard you talkin' ta Crowder in the hall. So, you're with that kidnappin' son of a bitch, are ya?"

Moesby raised his eyebrows and gingerly got to his feet. "In the hall? How...? Nevermind. Look, you'd better get back to the workshop before Crowder finds out you're gone."

"I ain't worried about that prick! You're gonna tell me how ta get outta this joint or I'm gonna stick this piece'a metal up your ass. Got it?"

"How to get out of here? Do you even know where you  _are_? Believe me when I tell you that the most help I can do for you is to show you the way back to the workshop. If you're caught out here or if Crowder sees me talking to you, we're both dead."

"You're gonna be dead if you don't tell me what I wanna know!"

"My God, you just don't get it do you?" Moesby's voice was beginning to crack as his nervousness took hold.

Suddenly, there was the groaning of a door opening out in the main foyer and Crowder's sandpaper-like voice bellowed Moesby's name. Whatever gusto Scout had a moment ago was now vanquished. Every fiber in his being was telling him to run away and hide. He was surprised to see Moesby's face etched with the same kind of wariness. The small man licked his lips and stuttered his response with a raised voice.

"C-c-coming b-boss!" Moesby turned back to Scout. "Please. I'm trying to save your life. Do as I say and I'll explain everything later. I promise. Go back to the workshop!"

"I can't!" Scout exclaimed in a raised whisper. "I got out through the vent!"

Moesby blinked. "Hide then. Go! The furnace!"

"I ain't gettin' in a freakin' furnace! Are you crazy?! How do I know you won't just turn it on?"

"If Crowder walks in here and finds you, he'll shove you in there for sure! You have to trust me! Go!"

Conflicted, Scout looked quickly from Moesby to the furnace to the door and back to the furnace again. Everything in him was telling him n _ot_ to hide inside a giant death trap of fire but he really had nowhere else to go. The only way out was the door in which he came and the man on the other side was someone Scout did not want to face. Not yet, at least. Moesby was right. His chances were better if he hid. With a disgruntled growl, Scout ran and crawled into one of the large oven pits, pulling the lid closed over his head. As he crouched in the confined space, he began to sweat profusely and trembled. Scout wasn't claustrophobic, but the idea of being cooked alive was highly uncomfortable. The pit was filthy with grime and soot and Scout couldn't help but cough; a plume of black dust floating up in the air every time he exhaled. He suppressed his breathing for fear that it would give away his position should Crowder enter the room. But all he heard was the sound of a door closing and nothing more.

* * *

 

The RED team reconvened at the military base just 4 hours south of Teufort; the Sniper offering them a ride in his camper van. They were wordless as a foreboding cloud hovered over them for the duration of the bumpy ride. When they arrived at the base in the middle of the desert, they poured out of the van with their weapons in hand as dry air engulfed them. Dirt kicked up like moon dust with every step they took. The military base itself looked nearly deserted and its defenses were laughable. Only a small brick wall with rusted barbed wire wrapped around the top kept any intruders out. The mercenaries were all thinking the same thing: they didn't need Australium to bribe a pilot. They could have barged right in and stolen the plane for free.

Miss Pauling led the eight mercs to the front gate where they were greeted by a less-than-stern looking man in military uniform. He gave Miss Pauling a small salute which she returned hastily. Soldier also returned the salute with great fervor.

"A pleasure, as always, Miss Pauling," he said.

"Thank you, Commander. Sorry to ask so much of you on such short notice," Miss Pauling replied, brushing a strand of hair from her glasses and tucking it behind her ear.

The dusty wind picked up and shrouded everyone in a beige haze.

"It's not a problem at all. Your... _generous_ donation is greatly appreciated," said the man, looking at the Engineer and nodding graciously.

Engineer returned the nod but his face remained stoic. "And our provisions?"

"Already onboard. Forgive me but I can't allow your entire team onto the premises. Your aircraft is waiting in the hangar at the back of the complex. I hope you'll understand," the commander said as politely as he could, folding his hands behind him.

"Of course," Miss Pauling replied.

She stole a glance over her shoulders, silently beckoning the mercenaries to follow her as she led them around the large complex to a towering hangar full of WWII era planes. Medic raised an eyebrow as he scanned over the visible crafts, not finding one that would get them to Antarctica in one piece.

The commander leading them spotted the man he was looking for and nodded at him enthusiastically. "Ah! Captain! There you are. Your top operatives have arrived."

The man being addressed was a young, surly gentleman with a squared chin and pearly white teeth. He looked like he had stepped straight off a movie set; brown bomber jacket and all. The mercs instantly hated him. He was smiling and wiping his hands with a rag.

"Very good, sir!" he said with bravado.

"This is Captain Jake Paige," the commander gestured to the pilot in front of him. "He's one of my best fighter pilots and he's agreed to be your escort for this mission. Captain, this is Miss Pauling and her crew."

Jake took a good long gander at the mercs scowling at him. He threw the rag down on a nearby work table and clasped his hands in front of him.

"Ok, great. Well, let's not waste any time. Shall we?"

He gestured for his nine passengers to follow him to a large plane out back behind the hangar, parked on the runway. From the outside, it looked like any normal retired bomber from the war and Medic and Soldier weren't the only ones to notice.

"Zhis is vhat ve are flying?" Medic asked skeptically. "Zhis vill not be enough to get us to zhe South Pole, I'm afraid."

"Now, now," Jake tutted, shaking his index finger at the doctor. "Don't judge a book by its cover. All aboard!"

"We are going to die," Spy whispered to Miss Pauling.

She sighed. "Please...just trust me."

The mercs still weren't comforted. Their puzzled glances bounced between Miss Pauling's timid face to the massive turboprop before them. It looked like just a normal Lockheed P-3 Orion. A heavy, clunky one at that.

"I'll explain everything on the way. I promise," Miss Pauling assured.

"You're goin' with us?" Engineer asked worriedly.

"Of course I am. I'm practically already fired for letting you do this. The Administrator's probably already on her way here to kill all of us. I can't show my face back in her office unless I have the Scout and a  _really_ good reason for encouraging this mission."

"Fair enough."

Jake, who had already climbed the air stairs into the plane, poked his glossy head out and hollered to his passengers. "Time's a-tickin', folks!"

The mercenaries all scowled at him. Miss Pauling looked at them reassuringly. They exchanged no more words; only shook their heads hopelessly as they boarded the aircraft one-by-one. The inside was exactly what they expected from a military war plane. It was spacious, empty, and lacking in any of the sort of aesthetically pleasing attributes a passenger plane would have. And the only seating available were two rows of benches, one on each side of the cabin, with harnesses attached to the metal wall behind them. Behind a mesh curtain secured to the ceiling and floor with metal rings, provisions could be seen sitting in wooden crates stuffed with straw, as well as several boxes of survival gear and winter apparel. The mercs found empty spaces amongst the barracks to stash their weapons for the long haul, though Heavy opted to leave his precious "Sasha" at home. And amidst all of this were the tools and supplies Engineer needed to build their teleporter home.

Jake had disappeared within the cockpit and the plane suddenly sputtered to life with a loud hum. The propellors choked slightly before spinning gracefully into a set of blurred spheres. Miss Pauling closed the hatch as the last of the mercenaries piled unwillingly into the cabin. Jake's voice burst forth over the P.A. system with a crackle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Along the length of the cabin, you will find two benches. Please secure yourselves into a harness and prepare for takeoff. For your safety, do not remove harnesses until instructed to do so. Keep your arms and hands inside the ride at all times – hehe – only kidding, of course. I'll have you to Antarctica in a jiffy!"

"If by 'Antarctica' he means 'the afterlife'," Demoman grumbled.

The aircraft began to taxi along the small runway. Jake turned to peer outside the cockpit into the cabin and once he saw that his passengers were buckled up, he gave the thumbs up. Miss Pauling was the only one to nervously return the gesture.

The propellors roared. Spy reached into his suit coat and pulled out a picture of the BLU Scout's mom, running a finger over it affectionately. He silently said his goodbyes as the plane lurched forward at great speeds and, before long, lifted into the air.

* * *

Scout couldn't take it anymore. The grit in the air inside the fire pit made it too hard to breathe. He felt like he had been curled up inside there for hours. The taste of soot and ash was overwhelmingly dry and bitter on his tongue. But then, the lid of the pit slid off and blinding white light and cool air rushed in to greet him.

Scout didn't care who was on the other end of that light. He bolted upright so quickly and heaved a giant gulp of air, coughing several times and sending black soot flying everywhere. He let his eyes adjust to the light of the room before finally seeing Moesby standing next to the pit with a worried look on his face.

"Sorry that took so long," he said softly, handing Scout a rag.

"Ya tryin' t'suffocate me?" Scout rasped, spitting up ash and whipping the cloth out of Moesby's hand to clean soot from his face.

Moesby extended Scout his hand to help him up. Scout, of course, ignored him and pushed himself to his feet on his own, brushing off the grime from his clothes.

"What's your name? Your  _real_ name?" asked Moesby.

"None of your damn business. Now show me the way outta here!"

Moesby sighed heavily. "Ok,  _Scout_...then? Scout. Do you have any idea what's going on?"

Feeling his temperature rise, Scout initially ignored Moesby's inquiry and searched the room for his iron bar, finally finding it by the furnace he was hiding behind before and sheathed it in his belt. He did his best to continue brushing ash off of his skin.

"I'm being serious," Moesby continued. "You seem to be under the impression that you're being held hostage in some warehouse outside a city. That's not the case, my friend."

Scout spun around swiftly and glared at Moesby, jabbing a finger at him. "I ain't your friend. If you wanna live, you'll show me the way outta here before my teammates get here!"

"And if  _you_ want to live, you'll  _listen_ to me before you end  _up_ _l_ ike me!"

"...What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Crowder is  _dangerous_ , Scout."

"I ain't afraid a'him!"

" _You should be_!" Moesby raised his voice so suddenly that Scout was taken slightly back. Moesby regained his composure and continued, lowering his tone. "You should be. The man has the ability to completely destroy you. The kids he abducts; they only have a year here, but if they don't get their act together, he... _keeps_ _t_ hem."

"What?"

"Every minute you're here, you are bound to him. It's like an invisible contract. And the longer you stay, the longer it takes to break that contract."

Scout still looked skeptical. "So if this moron is stashin' kids, where the hell are they all?"

Moesby glared at Scout. "There's only been one kid who was bad enough to stay."

Scout opened his mouth to say something when he caught the desperate look in Moesby's eyes. There was a sort of sorrow and yearning behind them and it didn't take long for Scout to interpret it.

"Who?... _You?!_ But you ain't a kid! You look like you're as old as me!"

"I never said you didn't  _age_ while you're in here. It's been seventeen years. I was actually a lot like you when I first got here. Stubborn, reckless, arrogant...And by the time I finally got my act together, it was too late." Moesby rubbed one of his pointed ear tips without realizing he was doing it. "I was only six years old. I can't save myself anymore, but I can help the kids Crowder brings here to avoid my fate. That's why I'm begging you to return to the workshop. Just do what Crowder says and in one year, if you've behaved yourself-"

"Woah, ho, ho!" Scout said, putting up his hands defensively. "I ain't stayin' here for a freakin' year! I got a job to do back home!"

"Then make sure you're free to return to it in 365 days! Or else you're gonna grow a pair of these!" Moesby pointed to his pointed ears. "Ever see Pinocchio? Welcome to Pleasure Island...minus the pleasure."

Scout suddenly found himself stunned and mortified. He didn't want to believe Moesby, but the sincerity behind his voice and the desperation etched across his face spoke volumes.

"You're lyin'," he insisted.

Moesby shook his head in disbelief. "I wish I was. Haven't you already been on the receiving end of Crowder's little aurora trick? Go back to the workshop, Scout, before it's too late and-"

Suddenly, a bone jarring alarm sounded off. Scout crouched slightly as he stared wildly around the room. His hand instinctively patted his belt where the iron bar was neatly tucked. He saw the look of horror on Moesby's face and knew that whatever was happening was not good. Not good at all.

"What is that?!" Scout yelled over the piercing alarm.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Moesby responded. "He must have gone to the workshop and saw that you weren't there!"

Without wasting another second, Scout limped towards the door of the forging room as fast as his feet would carry him.

"It's no use!" Moesby shouted after him. "You can't leave the complex! It's either die in here or die  _out there_!"

"I'll take my chances," replied Scout as he whipped the door open.

"No, you don't understand!"

But Moesby's pleas went ignored. Scout found himself inside the small foyer area once again; this time flooded with a swirling red light that was like a lighthouse leading Crowder to him in the dark. For a moment, he spun on his feet in a panic as he tried to figure out his next course. It was then that the door that led back to the workshop area slammed open and Crowder stood fuming in the doorway like a bull.

Scout froze. "Oh fu-"

* * *

The Lockheed P-3 Orion aircraft was well over the Pacific coast of Mexico when Jake finally peered around the flight deck and gave the OK for seat belts to be removed. It had been an hour into their journey and aside from a few moments of turbulence over Roswell, the plane was sailing smoothly through the skies. The mercenaries were silent, hands folded in their laps as they sat along the benches and gently rocked with the motions of the airplane. The propellors, once deafening, were now nothing more than distant white noise. There were no lights inside the plane but the afternoon sun pouring through the round windows spaced out along the length of the cabin provided more than enough to see by.

Miss Pauling sat squeezed between the Engineer and Spy and somehow, that made her feel slightly more at ease. Her face, however, said otherwise. Her brows were furrowed worriedly and she stared at the floor as the predicament she was in became overwhelming.

"What am I doing here?" she whispered, not expecting anyone to hear her.

"I have been asking myself that same question for an hour now," Spy sighed, puffing his cigarette.

"I'm so fired."

"Aren't we all?"

"Part of me wants to turn this plane around and just...forget about everything. It makes me feel horrible."

Spy grunted. "Perfectly normal. Nine of us risking our lives for one imbecile seems extreme. But you must look at the bigger picture."

"What's that?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

Miss Pauling couldn't help but laugh just then. The Spy was a calculated and ruthless killer but he could be charming when he wanted to be. A smug smirk tugged at his lips; cigarette smoldering between them. The two of them let their eyes drift around the cabin, taking in the sites of their comrades. Sixty minutes into the flight and everyone looked just as tense as the moment of takeoff. Those who weren't staring pensively out the port hole windows were idly playing with their hands folded in their laps. Words were not exchanged but everyone was thinking the same thing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," came the chipper voice of Jake over the p.a. The mercenaries looked up eagerly from their nervous stupor, leaning forward on their benches to better listen. Jake continued, "We've arrived at our cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. Once we're over international waters, it'll be about two hours until touchdown at the South Pole."

"Two hours?" Sniper exclaimed, looking at Miss Pauling with a baffled expression. "That's an 8500 mile trip! There's no way we'll make it in two hours!"

Miss Pauling cleared her throat. "Remember when I told you that there are some Mann Co. technologies you guys didn't know about? This is what I meant."

Engineer looked at her in disbelief. "What is this? What are we flyin' in?"

"Ok, folks! We're at our first checkpoint!" Jake's voice flooded the p.a. again. "Harnesses on!"

Again, everyone looked at Miss Pauling for reassurance. She only stared back guiltily and wiggled her arms into the shoulder straps behind her. The others reluctantly followed suit.

"The only reason we're even on this aircraft is because Engineer's Australium was enough of a bribe to bend the rules," she said. "The knowledge of this technology stays in this cabin. If you tell anyone about this, consider your careers with Mann Co. over. And then say hello to your new homes in the Teufort Military Penitentiary."

"Vhy hasn't Mann Co. revealed zhis technology vith us before? Ve are zheir employees, are ve not?" Medic questioned, buckling his harness over his chest.

"Just because you're Mann Co. employees, doesn't mean you're entitled to know everything."

"Considering our lives are at stake, I would say knowing 'everything' isn't asking too much," Spy said dryly.

Miss Pauling cast him an apologetic glance. "Please. Just...trust me."

Meanwhile, the Heavy was the only one to chance a look out the window and his mouth fell open at what he saw. One by one, the propellors of the P-3 Orion stopped spinning; the blades folding back and forming a four-pronged tube. Heavy watched as a mechanical process took place that he couldn't quite comprehend. Flaps opened on the wings and out ejected large, hallowed cones, filling the void between the four-pronged tubes. They sputtered to life with a faint orange glow that grew brighter and brighter with each passing second.

Captain Jake's voice boomed over the loudspeaker again, "Ok, reaching Mach 11 in 3...2..."

"Did he just say 'Mach 11'?" Engineer asked.

Suddenly, the plane lurched forward. A chorus of protests rang out through the cabin as Miss Pauling and the mercenaries held onto their harnesses. The entire craft began to rumble violently. The four cones along the wings of the plane had become jet engines and they spewed out a fury of explosive, hot fuel that burned blue and white. Their plane had become a rocket.

Another lurch and the plane burst through the sky at supersonic speeds. A vapor trail exploded behind them and a sonic boom echoed through the atmosphere. Where the Orion was once peacefully flying through the air, it now shot away like a bullet from a gun.

* * *

"-ck!" Scout exclaimed.

The alarms died. Without even thinking, Scout reached for his iron shrapnel and unsheathed it from his belt, holding it like his mighty baseball bat and preparing to strike. He took a swing at Crowder's torso but the old man's hands came up with a deadly quickness and blocked the assault. He held onto the other end and thrust it backwards, whipping the Scout forward. Scout stumbled and nearly collided into Crowder's barreled chest but he was sent soaring, instead, by the force of an abrupt backhand to his face. He shattered through the door behind him, landing in a shower of wooden splinters and debris.

"Ow! Shit!" he winced and gingerly propped himself up on his elbows.

Scout found himself in another long hallway. It occurred to him, then, that he now had a possible means of escape. Stealing a glance at Crowder, who was descending on him with the iron shrapnel in his grasp and his jaw clenched in fury, Scout scrambled to his feet and took off down the long hallway. Crowder growled as he clawed at the air, his fingertips barely brushing Scout's fleeting shirt.

"I knew you were going to be more trouble than you're worth!" Crowder shouted, spittle flying from his cracked lips. "You're  _never_ going to leave this place now! I'm going to make you  _beg_ for death!"

His threats fell on deaf ears. Scout focused simply on running. But the corridor, though long, was coming quickly to an end and he had no time to hatch an escape plan. At the end of the hall, a sharp corner was visible to the right. Scout whipped around it and disappeared from Crowder's sight. Still, he could hear his enemy's long, gaping steps growing closer with each passing second. Every fiber of his being wanted to fight; wanted to break that old man's hip and crack his skull with a bat. But he had nothing but his fists and some wit, and somehow he knew that wouldn't be enough. Not yet, anyway.

There were three doors in the hallway; two on each side of Scout and one at the end. He tried his luck with the ones to his left and right and failed. A string of curses filled the air and he continued to run down to the end of the hall.

"You have nowhere to go!" Crowder yelled as he tossed the iron bar to the side.

Scout reached the end of the hall and desperately rammed his shoulder into the door that greeted him. There was no handle or doorknob, only metal decorated in arcs of bolts and rivets. He tried pushing but the door wouldn't give. Panicking, he dug the tips of his fingers into the seam between the door and the wall and attempted to pry it in any direction but it was hopeless. Whatever was on the other side of that door, it wouldn't grant Scout freedom.

He spun around and frantically scanned the hall. Side to side, then up. Nothing. No ventilation shafts, no hatches, no doors. Nothing. But Scout refused to admit defeat. He stood up straight at the end of the hallway, his eyes flashing dangerously as he wordlessly challenged his enemy to approach him if he dared.

"Do you know what happens to children like you; what happens when they cause trouble?" Crowder threatened.

"Hey, newsflash, buddy. I ain't a child. So go screw yourself."

Crowder clenched his fists at his side. Baring his teeth like a wild animal, he marched forward towards his cornered captive. Scout pressed himself into the door behind him, feeling his blood begin to amp up. Every muscle and nerve in his body was preparing to fire.

"You know you can't fight," Crowder said. "So just hold still and make this quick for the both of us."

Scout only glared at him, watching him approach with a mixture of hate and fear. One end of Crowder's lip twitched into a sickening, sadistic smile. He outstretched his hand, fingers splayed as he moved to grab the Scout's throat and drain the life from him. But just as his grip was inches away from his target, Scout suddenly dropped to the floor. Crowder's face fell.

Scout somersaulted through his enemy's skeletal legs and was on his feet and running before Crowder could even comprehend what had happened. He couldn't quite hear the string of curses that erupted from Crowder's mouth over the thundering pulse in his ears. However, it was impossible to ignore the loud bangs and clinks of bullets striking the walls around him.

Crowder had unsheathed a pistol from his belt and began to spray the corridor with gunfire. A few shots came too close to Scout's head for his own comfort and he ducked as he sprinted down the long corridor, hugging the corner and heading for the splintered door at the end. Reaching it, he vaulted himself over the debris and found himself in the foyer. Scout knew the door to his left was the forging room so he decided to head back out into the hall that he had eavesdropped on Moesby from. And there was the little man himself, standing wide eyed in the corridor and watching Scout run at him like a charging rhino.

"There's nowhere to go!" Moesby insisted.

"You never told me the old man was packin'!"

"He has slaves make weapons for him! Of  _course_ he has guns!"

Crowder's angry bellows were heard drawing closer. Scout blanched and looked at the ceiling. The ventilation shaft was his only option for now.

Moesby seemed to know exactly what Scout was thinking. "It's useless, Scout."

" _You're_ useless! Get outta my way!"

And with that, Scout roughly shoved Moesby aside. The smaller man collided with the wall next to him and fell to the ground. Scout jumped straight into the air, barely finding purchase on the edge of the ventilation shaft with his finger tips. His muscles were sore and tired and they screamed in protest as he pulled his entire body up into the vent; the pain evident on his face. He elbowed his upper body in and kicked his legs to gain some inertia when, suddenly, he felt a vice-like grip around his ankle.

Scout immediately knew what it was. The pain hit him violently like waves of hot pokers slashing him across his entire body. He kicked his feet frantically in an attempt to throw Crowder off of him. The same white-hot electric agony he had experienced in the workshop was now enveloping him ten fold. All he could do was scream and continue to kick, more out of reflex than defense.

Crowder pulled at Scout's ankle as he allowed his unseen torture to continue. But the young man was holding tight to the sides of the vent; effectively creating a clamp with his arms. Crowder's eyes were wild with fury; teeth grit and spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. He panted out of his nostrils like an angry bull. But then, just as abruptly as Crowder had latched onto the Scout's leg, he found himself reeling back and clutching his face. He caught the last glimpse of Scout's shoe retreating into the vent, the tread mark on the bottom matching the one now imprinted on Crowder's face. He clutched his cheek and glared up at the ceiling, raising his pistol once again.

"Sir! Don't!" Moesby pleaded. But it fell on deaf ears. He winced as Crowder fired several rounds into the ceiling.

Scout never army-crawled so fast in his life. The pain inflicted upon him by Crowder's hand was wearing off faster than he expected and he pushed with his toes to aid in his escape, slithering along the metal shaft. He vaguely heard Moesby cry out before a bullet whizzed right by his left ear.

"Shit!" Scout yelped, flinching.

The second and third round missed their mark, as well, but only by a hair, and imbedded themselves in the metal around him with a spark and a loud ' _pang!'_. The fourth, however, struck him in his left hip. Scout let out a strangled cry. Every fiber of his being told him to keep moving, though. He wasn't going to die inside a ventilation shaft. Not here, not today.

Warm blood engulfed his pants and the pain was like a hammer hitting him over and over again. He'd been shot before; he knew he could handle it. But somehow, his situation made it all the worse. Another bullet lodged itself sharply into the wall of the vent and grazed his right bicep but he finally managed to crawl far enough out of the corridor where he knew he'd be safe for a short time.

In the hall, Crowder fired the last shot into the ceiling. Crumbles of plaster and stone trickled to the ground. Moesby was standing behind Crowder looking mortified. There was no way Scout survived that. No possible way...

"Sir," he said meekly. But before he could finish, he was greeted by a severe backhand. Crowder turned around and leered at him before storming off through the large double doors ahead of him leading to his chamber. He would flush that rat out of his pipes if it was the last thing he ever did.

Meanwhile, Scout welcomed blessed silence. The pain in his hip was intensifying with every passing second and he bowed his head and closed his eyes to compose himself. He maneuvered his hand down and let his fingers brush over the wound, feeling warm, sticky blood coat his fingers. With great trepidation, he wondered if he'd respawn back in Teufort if he should succumb to his injuries.

"Shit," he whispered to himself. "C'mon. Don't wuss out."

Taking a deep breath, Scout knew he had to keep moving if he was going to survive. But his strength was fleeting quickly and when he tried to push himself forward with his feet, he found the pain in his hip to be unbearable. He let out a small, strangled cry and grit his teeth; riding out the agony like a wave.

 _Ok, maybe just a little break,_ he reassured himself. With a deep sigh, he rested his perspiring forehead on his arms and closed his eyes, welcoming the involuntary oblivion that consumed him seconds later.


	4. The Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout nurses his injury and is able to rest for a short while, thanks to Moesby. But with Crowder's last button being pushed, the merc finds himself in a dangerous situation and is running out of time. Meanwhile, the remaining RED team members are dealing with a catastrophe of their own.

_"_ When we save the Scout, I'm gonna kill 'im," Sniper grumbled as he folded his arms over his chest and fumed.

The mercenaries had physically recovered from the immense G-forces inflicted upon them on the rocketing Orion. Miraculously, only the Heavy managed to pass out. He sat now, revived and looking green as he stared out the window. The plane lurched and rocked in the turbulent air.

"Just make sure you wait til we get back to Teufort. That way he can respawn," Miss Pauling had replied.

A white haze saturated the inside of the aircraft. The disheveled mercenaries continued to grumble to themselves and swallow back their nausea; the Spy chain smoking at a deadly rate. They were all eager to be back on the ground again. Captain Jake had been rather quiet for the last hour except for one small asinine remark after the jets kicked on.

Miss Pauling looked at her watch. It was early evening and the sun should have been going down yet it was still as bright as noon outside. She wondered if they were truly that far south. Finally, there was a break in the overcast and bright sun poured into the cabin. Instinctively, the eight mercenaries and Miss Pauling glanced out the window and were amazed at what they saw. It was the brightest white they ever laid eyes on. The great Antarctic continent came into view in all its glory. At first, it appeared as a desolate winter wasteland; flat and void of any features. But as their eyes adjusted, they could see miles of looming mountains in the distance. Rocky coastlines were a startling black against the blinding white of never ending ice and snow. It was truly awe inspiring.

And then, just as quickly as the clouds parted and Antarctica came into view, it was obscured once again. The aircraft gave a great lurch in the air as it hit waves of turbulent air. A chorus of groans echoed throughout the cabin as the mercenaries clutched their harnesses and their stomachs. Then, the voice of Captain Jake interrupted their misery from the flight deck.

"Ok, folks! Great news! With a sturdy tailwind, I was able to shave about 30 minutes off our flight time. We'll be landing at the South Pole in about twenty minutes so go ahead and gear up. I'll update you again when we're closer."

"Thank God," Miss Pauling whispered.

"So what's the plan then?" Sniper asked, standing up to stretch his legs and fetch his rifle from the cargo hold. "Just...run in there, guns blazin'?"

"It's never failed us before," Spy shrugged.

The other mercs shuffled about the cabin, gathering their things from the cargo net and shrugging on parkas, boots, and other arctic apparel. Each held their respective weapons like talismans to their chests; as if their separation made them feel nude and powerless. And then, nerves amped with the anticipation of landing, they sat along the benches again and strapped their harnesses over their chests the best they could.

Just then, the plane gave another violent sway in the air. The aircraft sputtered and became noticeably quieter. The mercenaries peered out the window and gasped. The engines, once glowing hot yellow and orange with burning fuel were now flickering and belching thick, black smoke.

Sniper furrowed his eyebrows and threw off his harness. Miss Pauling looked at him in fear and bewilderment.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"Dunno," he replied. "I'm gonna go find out."

Without further explanation, he marched through the cabin as gracefully as he could, holding onto whatever he could to steady himself. He reached the flight deck and opened the door, poking his head inside.

"Oi, it feels like a bleedin' boat in a hurricane out here!" he barked at Jake. "What's wrong with the engines?"

Jake, preoccupied with the instrument panel, managed a hurried glance at the Sniper before focusing forward once more. His hands gripped the yoke tightly; knuckles white.

"Sir, I really must insist that you go take your seat."

Sniper ignored Jake's plea and sat in the copilot seat, bracing his rifle on the floor between his knees. His eyes took in the maze of buttons and levers that were before him and the awe inspiring view out the cockpit window. Jake tapped on a gauge and cursed.

"What is it?" Sniper asked.

"It's the magnetic pole," Jake answered. "It's messing with the instruments. And the cold is choking up the fuel intake."

"We're close, then?"

"Very. But I can't land without the radar. The cloud cover's too thick."

Sniper scoffed. "What do you need radar for? What could we possibly crash into out 'ere?"

Jake took a deep breath. "Crevasses hundreds of feet deep, mountains, research stations, rough ice..."

"Got it."

There was a moment of pause as the two stared out the cockpit window at the never ending clouds; so white that you couldn't tell where the sky ended and the ice began. The plane continued to rock and bounce in the turbulent air. It was then that Jake noticed the Sniper's rifle balanced on its butt between the mercenary's knees.

"Sir, might I ask you not to have that up here?"

Sniper tore his eyes away from the sky and looked at Jake innocently. "Huh?"

"The gun, sir."

"What? This thing?" he nodded at his rifle. "Don't get your panties in a twist. She ain't gonna bite y-"

Just then, the aircraft hit a particularly violent wave of wind and the plane lurched. Sniper left his seat, becoming airborn for a split second and hitting the top of his head on the ceiling of the cockpit; his hat providing little protection. He swore loudly and clasped his skull. A loud  _BANG!_ went off as he landed roughly back in the copilot seat.

Out in the cabin, the other mercenaries were startled at the loud noise coming from the cockpit and the tumultuous movements of the plane. They clasped onto their harnesses.

"What was that?" Miss Pauling exclaimed, looking at the other mercenaries worriedly.

Spy was glaring warily at the cockpit door. He unleashed his harness and wobbled towards it. Just as he was about to yank it open, Sniper popped out; his face a sickening shade of grey and the barrel of his rifle smoking beneath his shaking hands. His eyes were wide and apologetic behind his sunglasses.

"What is it?" Spy asked, sensing the urgency.

"I don't mean to cause a panic," said the Sniper. "But we have a small problem."

"What problem?"

Sniper gulped. "I may have just accidentally killed the pilot."

* * *

The Scout woke up groggily from quite a dream. He dreamt that he was back home in Boston and was up to bat for the Red Sox in the World Series vs. the Yankees. Fenway Park, bottom of the 9th, bases loaded, two outs...

The ball couldn't have been pitched more beautifully as it sailed right down the middle and lined up perfectly with his belt. It moved in slow motion and he calculated every spin; saw every stitch. His bat was virtually weightless as he swung effortlessly and nailed a grand slam. The crowd went berserk. His team lifted him onto his shoulders and carried him around the bases as confetti and fireworks exploded over Fenway Park. He waved proudly and beamed as his mother blew him a kiss from behind home plate. But then, it began snowing. The once sunny park became grey and dreary with overcast. Scout looked up at the swirling black clouds and felt a deep chill overcome him. It then occurred to him that he was no longer being carried by his teammates but rather was trapped in ice up to his knees. He pulled as hard as he could but could not budge his feet.

 _Mom!_ he cried out but she began to vanish before his eyes.

The temperature dropped drastically and Scout hugged his arms to shield his skin from the pain of the cold. There was a flash of lightning and then – he was awake.

And it was  _freezing._

For a split second, Scout had forgotten his predicament and only shivered violently as he lay on his stomach with his arms tucked underneath his chest. Once more, the sweat on his skin had turned to tiny beads of frost. He took a deep, painful breath and exhaled forcefully; his breath a cloud of vapor in the dark ventilation shaft.

Scout wasn't sure how long he had fallen asleep but he knew it was a bad decision. The only bit of warmth he felt was the blood pooling around his hip. He cursed as the pain abruptly flooded his mind and he tried to roll over on his side. His joints were like concrete, though, and it took all of his strength but he finally managed to get his injured leg off the cold metal. Tears welled up in Scout's eyes as the sting became unbearable. Where was respawn when you needed it?

Gingerly, he placed a palm over the wound and pressed as hard as he could manage. A choked cry escaped his throat and blood saturated the bandages on his wrist. He let his head fall back against the shaft and he closed his eyes, swallowing back the pain.

"Fuckin' chump," Scout muttered to himself. At that moment, there wasn't a person alive on earth that he hated more than Nicolas Crowder.

As his eyes closed, he began to drift back into unconsciousness and so he forced himself awake with a start. He had to keep moving or risked dying from hypothermia; move too much, though, and he would succumb to blood loss. And if he was discovered, Crowder would make him wish the other two options happened instead. Scout growled in frustration and let the back of his head thud lightly against the vent repeatedly before he finally made his decision. He flopped back over onto his stomach, feeling a slight twinge of relief as the cold came in contact with his wound, and mustered his strength to pull himself with his arms. If anything, he wanted to simply find a safer place to hide until he could figure out his next course of action. He realized he had only managed to move a few feet before he collapsed back down in utter exhaustion. His perspiring forehead laid against the frozen steel of the vent as he breathed heavily. Every few minutes, he would repeat this torturous method until he finally saw the blurred light of an opening ahead.

The orange light pooling into the shaft deceitfully looked warm and inviting. Scout's appendages felt like lead as he weakly pushed with his toes the best he could; but his injuries were quickly getting the best of him. His vision blurred in and out of focus. He no longer felt the warmth of his own blood leaking onto his pants.

_Don't do this. Not like this._

Scout's mind kept telling him to fight; to keep moving forward, but his body refused to cooperate. He was only a few feet from the ventilation grate when his strength finally gave out and he let his head fall down against the frozen metal once again. Grateful that the cold was numbing the pain, he relished in the floating sensation of complete consumption and let his eyes close on no accord of his own.

* * *

"What in the bloody hell do yeh mean yeh 'killed the pilot'!" Demoman screamed, face blanching.

Immediately, the nose of the aircraft began to dip downwards. Chaos erupted in the cabin; and amidst that chaos, the Medic unbuckled himself from his harness and carefully made his way to the cockpit. Alarms began to buzz and ring all over the flight deck. Dials spun manically from every gauge and the attitude was dipping well below the horizon. With the cloud cover, there was no telling how much time they had before they struck ground. A pleasant female voice pierced the flight deck, ' _Pull up! Pull up!'_

"Scheiße!" Medic said under his breath. Without another word, he sat in the copilot seat and grasped the yoke in his sweaty, trembling hands.

"What are you doing!? Just heal the pilot!" the Spy cried out from the cabin.

"No time!" Medic shouted back, pulling up on the yoke with all his strength. He grit his teeth and sweat poured down his brow as the aircraft tested his strength. "C'mon. C'mon!" he growled. Then, the nose of the plane began to move upward and a small, hopeful smile tugged at the Medic's lips. The other mercs were silent and on the edge of their seats.

"I zhink I have it under control-!" Medic began to say but then he realized that the white air in front of him were not clouds, but snow. He swore and braced himself before the plane collided, belly down, with the ground below. It hopped a few times, panels and tips of the wings breaking off upon impact, and skidded through the packed ice. The aircraft began to spin like a compass needle and finally, came to a stop after several hundred meters.

* * *

Scout woke up with a start as his body hit the floor. He was unsure of what happened to him, but he knew he was on his back and the bullet hole in his hip was positively torturous. Bright light flooded his senses.

"Sorry! Sorry! You're heavier than you look!" came the voice of Moesby, though it sounded like he was under water.

Scout winced and tried to peel his eyes open despite the pain and nausea that seized him. He wanted to speak but his throat was clenched tight and dry. Coherent thought was out of the question, anyway. He began to drift away again until Moesby shook his shoulders.

"C'mon. We have to move and I can't carry you," said the smaller man.

"Whas goin' on?" Scout slurred.

"Stand up!"

Moesby ducked down and draped one of Scout's long arms around his shoulder, heaving him upward. Scout, acting on pure instinct, miraculously managed to make it to his feet. He stumbled and leaned heavily on Moesby, his head dipping from exhaustion.

"That's it. Now walk. I know a place where you can hide for a little while," Moesby said in a hushed voice.

"I feel like crap," was Scout's tired response.

"You  _look_ like crap. You've been shot. Now come on. Crowder will be looking for you."

This seemed to jar the Scout enough to his senses to make him put forth some extra effort. He still relied heavily on Moesby's strength to keep him upright, but was able to take dogged steps forward. His vision still danced in and out of focus and his head felt like it in the clouds yet he followed the pull of Moesby without question. He was too tired; too delirious to argue.

It felt like they had been walking for hours when Moesby finally released his hold from around the Scout's ribs and let him fall gently backwards onto what could only be described as a blanketed cot. Scout sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over in exhaustion and shivering violently.

"It's f-f-fuckin' f-freezin' in this j-joint," he said through chattering teeth.

Immediately, Moesby reached for a thick wool blanket and draped it over the Scout's shoulders. Scout graciously accepted it and clutched the ends of the blanket to his chest like a cross, eyes screwed shut in pain. The frost that had accumulated on his skin and clothing was now melting, leaving him damp and miserable.

"You're lucky, actually," said Moesby, watching Scout recuperate. "The cold helped stop the bleeding. Crowder likes to always keep it cold in this place. You know, to match the temperature outside. You'll get used to it. He probably didn't realize that it, most likely, saved your life."

"Whatever," Scout mumbled into his blanket.

There was a moment of pause and he finally opened up his eyes to take in his surroundings. He was in a small, dim room; the size of a large pantry. A single lightbulb swinging from a wire on the ceiling gave the room the appearance of an interrogation room. The cot he was sitting on was against the far wall, opposite the door he had been dragged through. The walls and floor were concrete and in the corner was a single, small table and chair with a few papers strewn across it. It was a barren room; one not fit to be put to use in any way.

"Is t-this your r-r-room?" Scout asked.

Moesby nodded. "Home sweet home."

"Won't Crowder c-c-come l-looking here?"

"I don't know. Probably. This whole section of the compound is where all the slaves sleep. But, if anything right now, he's probably looking for your dead body in the vents."

It was good enough for Scout. He nodded and closed his eyes again, burying half his face in the blanket while he continued to shiver.

"I'm sorry I don't have any dry clothes to offer you," Moesby said apologetically. "Just keep the blanket on and you'll warm up. And we need to get that bullet out of your leg."

Scout opened up the blanket and took a good, hard look at his wound for the first time. The blood had long since frozen and dried to his pants. He hissed in pain and gingerly touched the swollen area, finding it was beginning to mildly ooze again as the skin around it thawed.

"You got anything I can dig the bullet out with?" Scout asked.

Moesby walked over to his tiny desk in the corner and pulled something out of the drawer. It was a pair of needle nose pliers. He shrugged at Scout sheepishly.

* * *

In the middle of a desolate landscape, an arctic storm raged on. Thick, grey clouds obscured the sun and ice blew about so rapidly that it could cut your skin. The only site to see for miles in any direction was white and the only sound was of the fierce wind whipping through the empty, antarctic ice shelf. For any unlucky traveler, it would have been certain death. The temperature was cold enough to kill a man in minutes. And there, amongst the blowing snow and ice, was the faint outline of the fallen P-3 Orion.

It lay like abandoned ruins; nose dug into the ice. Snow had begun climbing up its sides like ivy. And then suddenly, a shower of sparks; almost instantly dissipating in the wind. The metal groaned under the force of its own weight.

Inside the cabin, the mercenaries lay scattered on the floor or clinging desperately to their harnesses by the crook of their arms. The Pyro was the first to come to, shaking the dizziness from his head. He looked around the cabin, seeing his fallen comrades and feeling the cold seize him like a vice, even through the insulation of his suit. Blearily, he crawled towards the closest person to him, the Sniper, and gave him a wary shake of the shoulders.

Sniper groaned as he came to, automatically reaching his hands up to clutch his head. His hat had been blasted away in the impact and lay somewhere in the cockpit. A thick gash bled from his brow line.

"Oi. Pyro, that you?" he croaked.

Pyro muffled something indiscernible in return but Sniper seemed to understand. "Yeah, no kiddin'. Are we all alive?"

Again, Pyro mumbled his response.

"Alright. Gimme a minute. My head's poundin' like a jackhammer."

Pyro gave Sniper a pat on the shoulder and stood up shakily to find his flamethrower. The cabin was practically pitch black, however. Carefully, he felt around the littered bodies and finally found his weapon; sitting back and giving the trigger a good squeeze. The cabin erupted with light and warmth and Pyro was finally able to get some bearings. The person to his immediate right was the Heavy, who was beginning to gain consciousness as the warmth of the flamethrower enveloped him. Aside from a few bruises and scrapes, he was relatively unharmed.

"What happened?" he asked, blinking several times to clear his vision.

Pyro answered him the same way he answered Sniper. And then, one by one, the Heavy and Sniper went about reviving the other members of their team; Pryo lighting the way with his flamethrower.

"You alright, Miss?" Sniper asked Miss Pauling as she sat up weakly and clutched her right elbow to her chest.

"Yeah," she said breathlessly, hissing in pain. "It's not broken, I don't think. Is everyone alive?"

Sniper crouched down on his haunches in front of Miss Pauling. "Everyone but the pilot..."

Miss Pauling stopped rubbing her head for a moment to look at him in puzzlement. And then, panic struck her. "Where's the Medic?"

Sniper's mouth fell open. He sprang up and ran for the cockpit, which had crumpled under the force of the impact. He shoved several pieces of debris out of his way and clambered into the mangled flight deck.

"Medic!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't get to anyvone. I seem to be trapped," Medic responded weakly.

The mercs let out a giant sigh of relief.

"No, you idiot! I wasn't callin' for you. I was  _lookin'_ for you."

Miss Pauling had stumbled over to the Sniper's side and peered into the cockpit, ducking under his arm. She gasped as she saw the Medic pinned awkwardly between the console and the captain's seat. His left leg appeared to be crushed under the instrument panel and his breaths were coming out in mild wheezes. Miss Pauling could see the faint trace of blood on his teeth as he smiled at her, assuring her he was fine.

"Is he alright?" Engineer asked from the cabin.

"Ja!"

"No, he isn't," Miss Pauling said; her voice trembling. She looked at Sniper in desperation. "Help me get him out! Find his medi gun!"

The Demoman and Heavy were the first ones to reach her side, grasping onto the bulkhead and pulling with all their strength. The weakened material gave enough for Sniper to take Medic's hand and yank him out of his seat; the others releasing the partition as it snapped back towards the cockpit and cracked. Medic gave an involuntary cry of pain as he was manhandled roughly from his position. His left leg was horribly twisted and bleeding and the tibia was jutting through his skin below the knee cap; poking out from his boot. He gasped and let out several strangled coughs; the result of his chest being slammed against the yoke upon impact.

Sniper eased the injured doctor down onto the cabin floor, propping his head up with a spare parka from the cargo area. "Alright, mate. Alright. Easy does it," he said softly. "Where's your medi gun?"

Medic took a large, raspy breath as the coughing fit subsided. "I...I'm not sure. I had it up in zhe cockpit."

Sniper looked up at Miss Pauling and she nodded, dashing back towards the wrecked flight deck and searching amongst the remains. Pyro let his flamethrower die and the cabin was enveloped in a dim and eerie haze. Outside, the blizzard continued to rage and the cold was now seeping in through the body of the aircraft.

"I am sorry. I tried to land," said Medic. "Zhere vas just no time. Zhis is all my fault."

"Don't be a fool," Spy said, sitting on his haunches next to the Sniper and looking down at the Medic empathetically. "You saved our lives. And technically, this is the Sniper's fault. He killed the pilot."

Sniper scowled at the Spy but before an argument could erupt, Miss Pauling ducked out of the cockpit excitedly.

"Got it!" she said breathlessly and fell down upon her knees next to the Medic.

With Heavy's help, Medic was able to gingerly sit up and receive the medi gun from Miss Pauling. Not bothering to shoulder the pack, he flipped the toggle switch on the handle of the gun and aimed it at his leg. But when he pulled back the lever, nothing happened. The pack made a fizzled groan and went completely dead.

"Oh no," said the Medic. "Zhis is very bad, I'm afraid."

"What is wrong? Why won't medi gun work?" Heavy questioned.

"Er. It appears zhat my medi gun may need some repairs. Zhe impact must have broken it." He looked up and smiled weakly at a worried Miss Pauling. "Not to vorry. It is just a broken leg."

"You're coughing up blood," Miss Pauling responded dryly.

"Well, we are officially screwed," said the Demoman. "We migh' save the Scout, but we're gonna lose the Medic."

"I'll be fine. Go find zhe Scout. Zhe sooner you find him, zhe sooner ve can get out of here and get back to zhe respawn room, ja?"

"I'm going to stay with him," Miss Pauling said, looking up at the other mercenaries.

"Good. Where we're going may be too dangerous for you anyhow," Sniper responded. "Where's the Engineer?"

The only response he received was the crackle and zapping noise of a welder in action and a flickering blue light that illuminated the cabin. The Engineer had already cracked open his tool box and set about his parts from the cargo; welding away at the soon-to-be teleporter.

"Good man," Spy said. "Alright. Gentlemen?"

With one more wayward glance of wariness, the mercenaries pried open the main cabin door and after an assault of freezing wind, they set off for magnetic south, leaving Miss Pauling, the Medic, and the Engineer behind.

* * *

"Man, I feel like crap," Scout moaned as he finally dug out and dropped the blood-soaked bullet onto a plate with a small ' _clink_!'. His wound had begun to ooze again and blood fell in small droplets to the floor. Sweat beaded Scout's ashen face.

Silently, Moesby stood up and found an old shirt, ripping a sleeve from the hem and handing it to Scout to wrap around his leg and hip. With a hiss of pain, Scout tightened the fabric snuggly around himself to staunch the bleeding, giving it small tugs before he was satisfied he could stand and walk without passing out. He let out a large sigh and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, inadvertently smearing blood on himself as he did.

"You should get some rest," Moesby finally said, feeling queasy from the whole event.

"Can't. Crowder's gonna find out I'm not dead sooner or later. I don't wanna be stuck in here when he does."

"You're no good to yourself out there injured like this."

"I'm no good layin' around here, either."

Moesby sighed. He knew it was a losing battle; figuratively and literally. Everything he had done to save this young, reckless man's life would be undone the minute he walked out of the dormitory.

"I still don't think you realize what position you're in," he said with a twinge of concern. "You didn't nearly freeze to death in the vents because our air conditioning is malfunctioning."

Scout raised his eyebrows and shrugged. It meant nothing to him. Moesby rolled his eyes and continued.

"You're on Antarctica, Scout. I wasn't making this up earlier. Even if you find a way out, you'll last only minutes out there before you freeze to death. It's part of the reason I haven't been able to leave."

Scout swallowed hard. Part of him registered what Moesby was telling him but pride refused to allow him to believe it.

"My teammates'll come. All I have t'do is wait for 'em."

"Wait for them  _in here_!" Moesby pleaded.

Scout took a deep breath and planted his hands on his thighs, gingerly pushing himself to his feet. He hissed in pain as his bullet wound stretched. "It ain't up for discussion. Come with me, man! I can get you outta here."

Moesby was suddenly caught off guard. His expression blanked for a moment. Fear enveloped him. "I...I can't."

"Yeah, you can! Stop hidin' in here like some sorta animal. My guys'll bust ya out!"

"No, you don't understand. I literally don't think I can."

Scout blinked in bewilderment. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"I  _told_ you before-"

Just then, there was the echoing sound of a door slamming shut out in the corridor. Scout and Moesby shared a horrified glance before they sprung into action. Without exchanging any further conversation, Scout dove into a nearby wardrobe and plastered himself towards the back of it as far as he could, out of sight. Moesby hurriedly scrambled around his small room, stooping to pick up any blood soaked rags and threw them under his cot just as his door slammed open. He straightened up and faced Crowder nervously.

"Boy!" Crowder rasped. "Where is he?"

"W-who, sir?" Moesby stuttered.

Crowder took a few menacing steps forward, looming over his slave and gripping him by the throat. "You know damn well who I'm talking about!"

Moesby clung to the hand that was squeezing his windpipe and gaped in horror. Unable to answer, Crowder threw him to the floor. He collided with the legs of his meager desk. Moesby grimaced in pain and was able to prop himself on his elbows before Crowder was upon him again.

"I know you've been helping him you little  _wretch_! When will you learn? It's been seventeen years and here you are, still defying me!"

Moesby attempted to shield himself with his arms but Crowder stooped over and easily picked the young man up by the collar of his shirt. The rage in his eyes was positively animalistic. Baring his teeth, Crowder raised a fist. Moesby closed his eyes and braced himself. But the strike never came.

"Hey!" came the booming voice of Scout.

Crowder was only momentarily frozen in surprise before a sly smirk unfolded across his lips. He slowly glanced over his shoulder and saw the young man standing there defiantly; a scowl etched on his face.

"Ah, the coward reveals himself," Crowder said casually, dropping Moesby to the floor and turning to face his adversary. "No longer hiding in the walls like the miserable cockroach you are."

Scout narrowed his eyes but refused to cave into Crowder's goading. He clenched his fists.

"Says the guy who gets his kicks from hurtin' little kids. What's the matter? Too scared to take on someone bigger than half your size?"

It was Crowder's turn to scowl.

Scout continued, "You can talk real big when you've got your stupid, magic electric hands to do the dirty work for ya. I betcha couldn't fight like a real man if your life depended on it."

"Scout, stop!" Moesby said suddenly and scrambled to his feet.

Crowder's upper lip twitched in a menacing snarl. He turned towards Moesby and fiercely backhanded him, sending the small man back down to the floor. " _You'll_ get what's coming to you, too, you little—!"

All of a sudden, there was a loud squelching sound as something connected with soft flesh. Crowder stood stunned for a moment, pausing his threat and staring at the wall ahead of him in shock; his mouth ajar. It took him only a few seconds to recover from the assault before he turned away from Moesby, coming face to face with his attacker. Scout stood fuming, chest heaving in rage. When Crowder's back was fully turned, Moesby could see the cause of the abrupt interruption. There, neatly embedded in the old man's back, was the pair of needle nose pliers Scout had used to extract the bullet from his hip.

Almost immediately, Scout had regretted his decision but he refused to show it in his face. He involuntarily swallowed and held his ground, watching Crowder's face contort into a monster-like fury he had never seen before.

"Like I said, moron," Scout said, trying to calm the quiver of fear in his voice, "pick on someone your own size."

The snarl on Crowder's face suddenly turned into a predatory grin. He curled his tentacle-like arm behind his back and without so much as a wince of pain, extracted the pliers from his flesh. Scout's mouth fell open and he unwillingly backed up.

Crowder held the tool in his hands, relishing in the sight of his own thick blood soaking the metal prongs. He examined it closely before his beady eyes met Scout's and he grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Shit..," Scout muttered.

"I am going to use these," Crowder said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, "to break apart each and every one of your fingers."

Scout hadn't realized that he was now backed into a wall. He tensed up as Crowder held the pliers against his neck and twisted them ever so slightly against his skin. And then lightning quick, the pliers disappeared and the pressure against Scout's neck was replaced by Crowder's spidery fingers. Instinctively, Scout coughed and grappled at the hand that gripped him. Moesby struggled to his feet to once again plead with Crowder to show them mercy but suddenly doubled over in pain as Crowder wrapped his hands around his wrist and delivered a lethal electric shock.

"No! Dammit!" Scout growled in frustration, watching as Moesby helplessly collapsed under the intense burning pain and became motionless seconds later.

When the assault was finished, Crowder stood over Moesby's lifeless body and panted through clenched teeth; spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Silence dominated the room for a split second before Scout went into his tirade.

"You sick son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you with my bare hands!"

He kicked and punched as hard as he could, ignoring the searing pain of his bullet wound, but was unable to find any firm purchase against Crowder's body. His growls of frustration were desperate and agonizing before they turned into a cry. Electricity warped down his body with nauseating force. All of his breath left his body and after attempting one more futile kick of his feet, Scout succumbed to darkness.


	5. The Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Medic seriously injured, Miss Pauling stays behind at the wreckage to keep an eye on him while the Engineer works on the teleporter. The remaining RED mercs begin their perilous trek across the frozen ice to find Crowder's compound at the South Pole, but run into someone unexpected along the way. Meanwhile, Scout's life hangs in the balance as he faces off against the Spirit of Australian Christmas.

Despite the copious amounts of layers and insulation the mercenaries adorned, they still trembled as the sub zero temperatures infiltrated and nipped their skin. They had been walking for what felt like centuries and though they knew the sun was up, it was obscured by thick grey clouds and whirling snow. What little exposed skin they had was quickly turning red and numb. It was impossible to get their bearings for whatever direction they looked, they saw nothing but a blizzard.

"This is suicide!" Demoman shouted over the roaring wind.

"Shut up!" Spy shouted back, holding a compass in his hands and studying it carefully. The needle swayed precariously from south to north, occasionally doing a 360 across the entire field. "We're here. We must have crashed close."

The Pryo muttered something that sounded a lot like, "Thank God!"

"Just how are we supposed to find our way back to the plane?" Sniper asked, walking up next to the Spy.

"Not to worry, maggots!" Soldier barked, shaking excess ice from his parka. "I have developed a keen sense of direction from my time spent navigating enemy territory abroad! I can sniff out jet fuel and carcasses from miles away!"

The others exchanged doubtful glances. While the Spy and Sniper deliberated over their next course of action, Demoman hugged his arms to himself and shook. He stole a glance to his right and saw the Heavy standing there stoically, lost in thought.

"Aren't yeh cold, lad? I can't feel me naughty bits anymore!"

Heavy sniffled casually, shrugging. "I am from Siberia..."

The sound of the Sniper's raised voice caused everyone to focus forward. "What in the bloody hell do you mean 'it has to be here'? Look around, mate! There's nothin'!"

"Look at the compass, you fool!" Spy exclaimed, gesturing towards the tool in the palm of his hand. "Where else could we possibly be?"

Pyro took it upon himself, just then, to give his flamethrower a little squeeze. It erupted into orange flames, illuminating the mercenaries' faces with a warm glow that penetrated their grey surroundings. It was a welcomed warmth and for a split second, they all forgot what they were arguing about and relished in the relief. Grateful, everyone inched in closer to the heat. Everyone, that is, except the Spy, who stared straight ahead towards their direction of travel.

He saw it. A glimmer in the air like a reflection of motor oil in a puddle of water. Spy narrowed his eyes and reached into his parka, pulling out his revolver.

"What is it?" Sniper asked, teeth chattering.

Spy ignored him and fired off several rounds; the blasts all but silenced against the wind and snow.

"What in the hell are yeh doin'!" Demoman exclaimed.

There was a flash of green light and, suddenly, the mercenaries found themselves gobsmacked and gaping at three bullets suspended in midair. The Spy cautiously approached and with a flick of his hand, tapped one of the metal bullets with the tip of his gloved finger. It remained suspended but the disturbance in the electric field around it caused a ripple of pink and green light to surge upward around what appeared to be a giant invisible dome.

"Electricity," the Spy said simply, shaking the uncomfortable shock from his hand. "It's the same force field Nicolas Crowder used to deflect our bullets in Teufort. We're here. Crowder is protecting his base with the aurora."

Demoman gaped. "What in God's name...?"

Pyro, knowing he was insulated in his rubber suit, cautiously inched forward and put his right foot through the swirling light. The bullets instantly dropped to the ground and blew away with the wind, rolling like pebbles along the ice until they vanished. Pyro glanced down at his foot but it was completely out of sight. His heart began to race. With a subtle nod of encouragement to himself, he followed through with the rest of his body until he completely disappeared.

"Pyro!" Soldier barked.

Pyro's head popped out, appearing to be floating, bodiless, in midair. He muttered something unintelligible and then disappeared again. The mercenaries exchanged worried glances. They knew what they had to do but none of them felt they had the strength to endure the pain. The force field was electric; made of swirling particles of plasma. They had recalled the brunt force and twinging pain that Crowder had unleashed on them at headquarters, so walking willingly into a wall of electricity was not exactly something they were prepared to do.

"Let's just do it fast. Like bandaid," Heavy said begrudgingly under his breath.

Spy gave a heavy sigh. He glanced around at his comrades and was greeted with a sea of apprehensive looks.

"On three," he said simply, knowing that stalling any longer would do them no good. "One...two...three!"

* * *

Scout hit the ice and slid for what felt like an eternity, feeling the rough, frozen terrain scrape his skin. He clenched his eyes shut and hissed in pain through his teeth. The cold was paralyzing. Gale-force winds whipped his damp clothes wildly about; his dog tags jingling. He came to a stop on his side and gingerly managed to prop his upper body up on his elbow before Crowder was upon him.

"Let me start off first by saying that the little alliance you had formed with Moesby was...endearing, at best," he shouted over the wind, circling the Scout like a hungry predator. "All you had to do was build me some weapons, Scout. In fact, all you  _really_ had to do was keep your mouth shut and allow me to take what is rightfully mine. But you had to be a little hero, didn't you?"

Scout could barely even comprehend what Crowder was saying. The cold was gripping his entire body like a vice. He shivered violently and forced himself to breathe. Not saying a word, there was a very brief moment of situational awareness, and Scout suddenly swung his elbow back to strike Crowder in the knee. It was like hitting a stone. Unfazed, Crowder reciprocated the attack with his boot.

Scout could do little more than weakly cry out as Nicolas Crowder's foot connected with his back. He wanted desperately to fight back; to wipe that grin off Crowder's ugly, wrinkled face; to avenge Moesby. He wasn't going to die at the hands of some old man.

The cold was making it hard for him to move, but Scout managed to twist his body out of the way of Crowder's last kick. If he could just get to his feet, he'd have a chance. Speed was one advantage he had against Crowder's inhuman strength. And somehow, against all odds, he was successful. Scout couldn't even remember how he managed to stand up so quickly, but once he had, he found his strength was draining even faster. Warmth penetrated his left leg; his bullet wound bleeding once again. He instinctively wrapped his arm across his torso, protecting himself as he stood there weakly. His chest heaved with every forced wheeze, the frozen wind sucking the life out of him with every passing second. He glared daggers at Crowder as their silent stand off continued.

"It's over, Scout," Crowder said with a condescending smile. "I don't even  _have_ to fight you. It's twenty degrees below zero. All I have to do is stand here for another two minutes before you die where you stand. Just like Moesby."

Scout snarled, clenching his fists. He willed his body not to shiver but it was futile. "Yeah, y-you must f-feel real t-t-tough, pal. L-l-lettin' the c-c-cold do the d-dirty work f-f-for you..."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Crowder roll his beady, white eyes. "Stalling will get you nowhere, I'm afraid."

"I ain't s-s-tallin'. It's j-just...if I'm g-gonna d-die out here, I w-wanna make s-sure I g-give you as m-m-much hell as p-possible b-before I g-go."

"Oh, believe me. You've done a  _wonderful_ job so far."

Scout grinned. "You ain't s-seen nothin' yet."

* * *

Five mercenaries lay on the Antarctic ice shelf, scattered haphazardly like rag dolls. Groaning rag dolls. The wind and ice forgotten briefly, they sat collecting themselves as the last effects of the electrical force field wore off.

"Let's never do tha' again," Demoman whined, rubbing his temples. "I feel like I jus' ran through a car wash fulla cattle prods."

Gingerly, the mercenaries heaved themselves to their feet. Spy stumbled a bit before he was caught by Heavy's massive forearm. He did his best to remain dignified and nodded a silent 'thank you' to the heavy weapons expert before brushing flecks of ice off the lapel of his parka.

"C'mon," said the Sniper reluctantly. "Let's go find the Scout and then get the hell outta here."

The sun shining on the vast, snowy landscape was blinding and the freezing cold continued to seep through their insulating layers. Wind whipped the fur lining on their parkas as they trudged through the ice, leaning into the gale. It was hard to believe that it was almost midnight; the sky as bright as noon between the cracks in the clouds. The mercenaries sighed gratefully as the blizzard began to lighten up.

It was almost alien. Never before had any of them seen such a stark emptiness. Not even in the deserts of New Mexico. Not even Heavy, who hailed from the frozen tundras of Russia could say he had experienced such isolation. It was like walking through a void. But when the sun finally illuminated the continent for more than a few seconds, the air became alive with glittering ice.

For a moment, they had forgotten their prerogative until a dark patch in the snow ahead brought them back to fruition. Sniper put his hand up, signaling the others to stop. They looked at him curiously and then followed his line of sight.

"Is that...a body?" Soldier thought out loud.

"Let's hope it's not our Scout's," Spy sighed, wishing more than anything he could light up a cigarette.

The mercenaries broke out into a jog and approached the lump in the ice without any hesitation. Worriedly, they peered down at the small body and sighed collectively in relief. It wasn't Scout.

"Poor bugger," Sniper said under his breath, kneeling down on one knee.

"Where'd yeh think he came from?" Demoman inquired.

"Dunno." He placed his hands on the body to turn it towards him. His mouth fell open when he found it soft beneath his touch. "What the-? This fella's thawed! He's still warm!"

Suddenly, a flurry of hands were upon the body, turning it on its back. It was then that Moesby opened his eyes and took in a great gasp. The mercs jumped back.

There was an awkward silence for several seconds as the mercenaries stared in bewilderment at the young man partially buried in the snow and Moesby stared back at six men in parkas carrying large guns; one in a rubber hazmat suit.

"Am-m-m I hallucinat-ting?" Moesby finally stuttered, weakly. He shivered violently.

"What in the bloody hell'r yeh doin' ou' here, lad? An' how are yeh still alive?!" Demoman asked.

"I s-shouldn't b-be. I was thrown out-t-t here t-to d-d-die."

Spy suddenly put his hands on Demoman's shoulders and stared hard at Moesby's clothing. "Look. His clothes. His ears."

It took the others a second to realize that Moesby looked and dressed like an elf. Pointed ears and all. Did that mean...?

"You know where our friend is, don't you?" Spy asked. It was more of a statement than a question.

Moesby's mouth went ajar for a moment. He blinked in bewilderment. "You're Scout's t-t-team! He s-said y-y-you'd c-come! I d-don't believe it!"

"Where? Where is he?"

"Help m-me. I'll sh-show you. B-but it m-might be t-t-too late."

* * *

"Staring out zhe vindow like a puppy vill not make your master come home sooner," Medic said with a warm smile, his back propped up against the fuselage.

Miss Pauling turned to meet his gaze. Her arms were folded across her chest as she shivered against the ever-penetrating arctic cold. Frost had accumulated heavily on each window but she still looked outside into the abyss of white. The worried features on her face were illuminated by the occasional red glow of Engineer's welder.

"I'm just worried, that's all," she said quietly and walked over to the Medic, kneeling down by his side. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. You mustn't vorry so much," he replied, hiding his hands from Pauling's view; his fingertips developing into a shade of blue.

Miss Pauling's eyes took in Medic's injuries. He was still wheezing slightly with every breath, however it had improved once he was sat up. His left leg was still protruding awkwardly below the knee; mangled flesh sticky with drying blood. The medi gun lay uselessly at his side.

Miss Pauling gave Medic's shoulder a very gentle, reassuring squeeze before she pulled herself to her feet and walked over to check on the Engineer. His face was tense in concentration; his goggles flickering red with the glow of his welder. Sparks showered the floor and gave off some minor but welcome heat. Miss Pauling stood back and admired the Engineer's handiwork. The teleporter spanned the width of the fuselage; it's platform deceptively ordinary and lifeless. She knew it would be only a matter of hours before it was up and running and they could escape the Hell they brought themselves to. For now, all she could do was pace about and gaze worriedly out the frost-encrusted windows, looking for the hint of red that would signal the mercenaries' approaching parkas.

The Engineer seemed to read Miss Pauling's mind. He parked his goggles on top of his forehead and wiped some sweat from his brow.

"Should be ready soon," he said.

"Good. We can get the Medic out of here then," Miss Pauling answered with a nod.

Engineer sucked in a breath. "I'm 'fraid that won't be possible. At least, not without everyone else."

Miss Pauling's eyes widened.

"Ya see, even with the Australium I salvaged from the engines, the teleporter still only has enough juice for one trip. It's just too far. We can't risk it shortin' out."

"So we have to wait for everyone?" Miss Pauling reiterated in disbelief.

"'Fraid so."

Miss Pauling rubbed her arms, feeling the chill in the air intensify. She lowered her voice. "He's in pretty bad shape. He needs a doctor. A  _real_ doctor."

"I heard zhat!" Medic called out. "I'm  _fine._ I must insist you stop fussing over me."

Just then, he broke out into an unstoppable cough. Flecks of blood, once again, flew onto his lips. Instantly, his face contorted in pain and he hissed through his teeth, bringing a hand up to gingerly press against his rib cage. At once, Miss Pauling was on her knees by his side, a fearful and concerned expression behind her cat-eye glasses. For a second, she let her hands hover over the Medic; unsure what to do, before they simply landed softly on his shoulders. She said nothing, only stole a glance over her shoulder at the Engineer, who nodded knowingly and set back to work on the teleporter with fervent speed and urgency.

* * *

His fever was raging and his wounds stung, but Scout was still putting up the fight of his life. He knew he had only minutes left before he succumbed to the elements and he refused to give Crowder the satisfaction of witnessing his downfall. Still, every move of his body caused his freezing joints to seize and he was wracked with clenching shivers that he could not will away no matter how hard he tried.

Crowder knew it was only a matter of time, too. His knowing, arrogant smirk spoke volumes. The Scout's footsteps faltered, his skin was ashen, and his clothes were covered in blood and ice. Yes, he was mere minutes away from collapse. And then Crowder would be rid of the biggest thorn in his side since Moesby.

Still, the kid's tenacity was...admirable.

"Just give up," Crowder said over the wind. "You want to avenge Moesby so much, then die with some dignity."

"I ain't d-d-dyin'! And even if I w-was, I'd r-r-rather die kickin' y-your ass!"

Scout wildly lunged at Crowder, fist raised and poised to strike. But he was weak and sluggish and Crowder moved away with ease. Still, Scout whipped around and swung at him at close range, hoping the quickness of the assault would at least throw Crowder off guard.

It didn't.

Nicolas Crowder caught Scout's bandaged fist in the palm of his hands and squeezed. The mercenary instantly cried out in pain and tried to retract his hand but Crowder's strength was unrelenting. The Spirit of Australian Christmas sneered; his eyes lighting up with sadistic glee. He relished in the young man's futile struggles for only a moment before he jerked him forward and pummeled his stomach.

A puff of fogged breath and drops of blood were propelled into the arctic air. Scout fell to his knees and doubled over before falling back, sprawled out on the ice. He lay there wheezing; face screwed tight in pain. The advanced stages of hypothermia were already well in progress. It was actually remarkably peaceful. But then a jarring pain brought him back to his senses. Crowder was digging the heel of his boot into the bullet wound on Scout's hip.

Scout cried out; a deep, desperate scream. His legs and arms were frozen but his torso was now on fire. He grit his teeth and clutched at Crowder's boot but his fingertips were numb.

"I've heard the term 'glutton for punishment' but you take it to a whole new level, Scout!" Crowder laughed and released his foot.

Scout immediately rolled over onto his stomach to protect his wound from any further injury and rested his forehead on his wrist. Vaguely, he could hear Crowder monologuing about something in the distance but his vision and hearing were quickly fading. All the "fight" in his fight-or-flight was gone. His body went into overdrive and he thought of nothing but getting away from Nicolas Crowder as fast as possible; getting out of the cold. Unfortunately, 'fast as possible' with his injuries was nothing more than a feeble and pathetic crawl. As Crowder continued talking, Scout continued moving, leaving a trail of blood in the ice and snow behind him. He wasn't even sure how far he had gone or how much time had past before he felt himself being turned onto his back and hoisted up off the ground by his neck. Instinctively, his hands came up as if to pry the fingers away but they merely flopped down at his side. His feet dangled off the ground. His hooded eyes struggled to focus.

"There's a good lad," Crowder growled softly. "I want to see the life leave your eyes; that arrogant fire inside you die out."

The last morsel of Scout's energy began to fade. He didn't even feel cold anymore...

"If you beg, I'll kill you quickly," Crowder whispered.

For a second, Scout only stared blankly but then something occurred to him. He smiled and then without warning, spit right in Crowder's eye. His smile remained even after Crowder dropped him to the ice and cursed; wiping away the offending saliva with his sleeve. Scout knew this was it. He was going to die and there was nothing he could really do to save himself. But dammit all to hell if he wasn't going to have a laugh before he went.

He kept his eyes closed; his face no longer tense with pain but content and relaxed as his life slipped away. He heard the clicking of a pistol loading. An eternity passed...

_BANG!_

And then Scout felt nothing.


	6. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The South Pole is turned into a battlefield when the RED mercs arrive to rescue Scout. Nicolas Crowder proves to be a tougher adversary than they expected, though, and the fight ends in tragedy. Back at the wreckage, Engineer finishes building the teleporter but sets a deadline that leaves Miss Pauling with a very tough choice.

Scout lay in the snow, the wind wildly whipping his frosted clothes. He remained in the position in which he landed after Crowder had dropped him, finding a tiny fraction of relief in the feeling of drunkenness his body experienced as it shut down. Inwardly laughing, he found that everything that had led up to that exact moment was the result of a chain reaction he had absolutely nothing to do with. Yet, there he was, alive and smiling into the crook of his arms as he heard the hammer of Crowder's gun lock into place.

It was no secret that Scout was arrogant by nature. He loved life and everything it had to offer  _him_ _._ But at the same time, he also felt that there was so much  _he_ could offer in return. He was fast, a clever and ambitious problem solver, one hell of a baseball player, and a formidable mercenary. But he was also a son. And a friend. And one of the bravest people his RED team ever knew; young and full of life and energy and taunting grins. It should be in his very nature to lash out at the idea of death.  _Real_ death. Maybe he'd respawn back in Teufort. Maybe not. Either way, he was surprised to find himself so numb. Perhaps it was the result of taking so many lives himself.

Or maybe it was the fever.

... _BANG!_

And then he felt nothing.

Seconds passed and Scout found that he was still very much breathing and still very,  _very_ cold. With every ounce of strength left in his body, he peeled open his eyes. Then he saw it. Blood slowly trickled down an unmistakable hole in Nicolas Crowder's chest. The old man stood there, staring down perplexedly at the oozing wound before his face contorted into a wrathful sneer. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head and peered over his shoulder at the man standing behind him.

Hazed by the blowing snow, a tall figure stood standing with his smoking rifle still aimed at Crowder's chest. The fur lining his red parka bristled in the wind. His aviators reflected the landscape before him.

"Sniper?" Scout croaked but it came out as nothing more than a whisper lost in the blizzard.

And then all hell broke loose. Scout saw Crowder's aurora shield go up around his sinewy body as the air filled with the roar of gunfire. He was suddenly filled with a mixture of excitement, bewilderment, and relief. It all proved too overwhelming and he reluctantly closed his eyes and drifted into oblivion.

The arctic ice shelf had become alive with the explosion of firearms and rocket launchers. Crowder merely held his ground; his shield glowing green and absorbing every bullet that came his way and spitting them back out in all directions. Five more men joined the first, using the blowing snow as cover.

As Crowder relished in the blurry war, he focused forward and did not see the RED Spy materialize behind him; knife raised high in the air. But it hardly mattered. The Spy brought his knife down to strike Crowder in the back but was thrown back several feel through the air, landing hard in the ice and remaining motionless. His steel knife spiraled across the ice and came to a stop next to his head.

"It's the damn shield!" Soldier screamed before a bullet penetrated his bicep.

Sniper was at the Spy's side in an instant. He gave him a few light slaps on the cheek before the mercenary's eyes fluttered open behind his ski mask.

"You alright, mate?"

Spy groaned and sat up, clutching his forehead. "Yes. Metal won't work on him."

"Yeah, we figured that out pretty quickly," Sniper deadpanned, although the gunfire continued to rage on around them."We need to just get the Scout and get the hell outta here."

The blizzard intensified, obscuring their surroundings in a flurry of snow and white haze. Occasionally, Sniper and Spy would catch a glimpse of the red of someone's parka as they ran by in the distance, guns blazing. Sniper stood up and extended his hand down to the Spy, who clasped it in his own and gingerly stood up to wipe the ice from his pants. He bent down to gather his knife and tucked it away deep into his coat.

Demoman appeared out of nowhere, running up to them breathlessly with his grenade launcher almost extinguished. "Where's the lad?"

"Who? Scout?" Sniper shouted back.

"No! Moesby!"

"I haven't a bleedin' clue! Where's Scout?"

"Heavy's got 'im!"

And then, as quickly as he had come, Demoman ran off with his grenade launcher perched on his shoulder and ready to fire; disappearing into the blizzard. A scream was heard in the distance.

Crowder had spun on his feet, his white eyes wide with inhuman wrath. He snarled and wildly looked around for his assailant, his eyes finally landing on the Pyro seconds before he was blasted with another wave of fire. Pyro, who had spent the duration of the battle simply trying to get within range, was finally able to dodge enough bullets and attack his adversary. The fire ripped out of his flamethrower and ignited the grey, cold air with a burst of orange warmth. Crowder put an arm up to shield himself from the blast and growled furiously as his koala cape caught fire. Hurriedly, he slapped the fur to extinguish the flames and turned to return the attack, but Pyro was surprisingly agile and moved behind him. The mercenary muttered something that sounded like a muffled taunt behind his mask before drowning Crowder in an inferno once again. It was in that instant, the Spirit of Australian Christmas sent his force field out like a shockwave that rippled across the ice shelf and knocked Pyro to the ground.

Meanwhile, as the battle carried on, Heavy had found his way over to the Scout just as Demoman had said and fell to his knees next to his fallen comrade.

"Scout!" he barked, giving the young mercenary a gentle shake.

He received no response. Scout's face was pallid, caked in blood, bruised, and lacking his trademark smirk. Heavy frowned and hurriedly shrugged off his parka, gently lifting Scout's torso off the ice so that he could place it around him. Scout's brown baseball cap laid crookedly beneath the young man's head and Heavy did his best to place it back on; anything to retain heat. He gazed off onto the battlefield, hoping to catch a glimpse of any of his teammates. He then saw a blur of mottled, orange light in the distance; Pyro had gotten through to attack Crowder. Heavy knew it was time to regroup and head back to the plane but finding all of his comrades in the blizzard would be next to impossible. With a nod, he simply scooped the Scout effortlessly up into his arms and did what he hoped everyone else was doing and ran towards the fire.

The first person he came across was Soldier, who was kneeling in the snow clutching his bleeding arm with gritted teeth.

"Soldier!" Heavy shouted.

Soldier looked up from beneath his helmet. His face dropped when he saw Scout hanging lifelessly in Heavy's arms.

"Is he alive?"

"Da. For now. We have to get back to airplane!"

Soldier sighed in pain as blood flowed out between his gloved fingers. He saw a burst of orange light and looked at Heavy, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

"Go!" he said. "I'll regroup with you later!"

"We go together! It's too hard to find everyone in blizzard!"

"I'll only slow you down, maggot!"

"Nyet!" Heavy said sharply and kneeled down next to the Soldier, offering his shoulder. "Soldier once said, 'Never leave man behind!'"

Soldier, for once, was caught cleanly off guard. He gaped at the Heavy momentarily before nodding proudly and grabbed onto the proffered appendage, hoisting himself to his feet. He swayed for a second but quickly regained his composure and followed Heavy towards the orange light.

Demoman had somehow made his way back to the Spy and Sniper and crouched low on one knee next to them, his grenade launcher perched against his hip.

"Pyro got through!" he hollered at them.

"Good! Now if he could kindly barbeque the man to death, we can get the hell outta here!" replied Sniper.

Spy got into a walking crouch. "Let's move! We need to regroup and head back to the plane!"

Demoman and Sniper followed suit, staying low to the ground as they ran hunched towards the fiery blast. As they drew closer, they could see two figures standing in the blizzard and a fierce, orange glow coming from one of them. Conveniently, to their left, Spy saw Soldier running in the same direction, followed by Heavy carrying someone in his arms whom Spy could only assume was the Scout. He looked forward just in time to see a wave of green light heading outwards towards them at blinding speeds.

"Get down!" he shouted but it was too late. The wall of electricity hit them like a tsunami.

The blast all but brought the mercenaries to their knees. Pyro's flamethrower was knocked clear of his grasp. As they lay groaning in pain upon the ice, Crowder circled in and out of them; almost stalking them as his frown transformed into a grin. His face was badly burned and his yellow, crooked teeth protruded from his skeletal jaw. His clothes were charred, his koala cape all but incinerated...

"Never have I come across such blatant stupidity," he said. "I suppose I should commend your loyalty to one another. After all, you came all this way just to die together in the middle of Antarctica." He opened the chamber of his pistol and counted the rounds before slamming it back in place. "A pity you couldn't put up a better fight. I'm simply going to put you all down like  _dogs._ "

He cocked the hammer of his pistol and took aim at the Pyro right before the roar of the arctic wind was interrupted by a distant ' _thunk! thunk!'_ A blur out of nowhere slammed into Crowder's reindeer skull helmet and sent it cartwheeling through the air. Immediately, Crowder screamed and clasped his spidery fingers over his balding, boney head.

The mercenaries were dumbfounded. They looked about wildly and finally saw a small figure coming into view through the haze of snow. There was Moesby, elf ears and all, standing defiantly with what appeared to be a rocket launcher cradled in his arms. Except it wasn't shooting missiles. He shouldered the weapon and took aim once again, pulling the trigger and showering Crowder in an onslaught of hardened...snowballs.

Spy's eyes widened suddenly. He remembered the conversation he had with the BLU Scout before he embarked on this rescue mission.

_"Yo! It's his helmet. I...I think it's his helmet. That lame-o reindeer skull one. I caught him off guard when I nailed 'im with an ornament to the head...but wasn't until Soldier knocked his helmet off that he became all talk and no walk."_

Spy turned and spotted the reindeer skull helmet laying harmlessly on the ice yards away from Crowder's reach. He scrambled to his feet.

"Now! Attack him now! His defenses are down!"

"What in the bloody hell do yeh mean 'his defenses are down'?" Demoman hollered back.

Quickly, to reiterate his statement, Spy unsheathed his gun from his parka and fired several rounds at Crowder. The bullets penetrated and forcefully sent the old man stumbling backwards; gaping in shock at the three holes littering his torso. An excited realization dawned on the team.

Moesby had ceased fire as well and for what felt like an eternity, he stood by the mercenaries and gaped at Crowder. The Spirit of Australian Christmas stood fuming, shoulders hunched and heaving with every breath, teeth grit and eyes wild with anger.

The mercenaries needed no further provocation. Crowder barely had time to flinch before six weapons of various sizes were aimed at him and fired. The howl of the wind was once more filled with the roar of chaotic arson. Crowder disappeared behind a barrage of bullets, fire, rockets, and ice. His guttural screams were bone chilling and gargled behind a veil of smoke. The onslaught continued for what seemed like forever. Heavy could only stand behind his team gaping in shock; still holding Scout's body in his arms.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the guns, one by one, tapered off into a symphony of 'clicks' as their chambers emptied and the ammunition was exhausted. The smoke cleared quickly in the whipping blizzard winds and the mercenaries all gazed apprehensively at the spot on the ice where their enemy once stood.

Was  _still_ standing.

Nicolas Crowder very slowly pulled himself to his feet. His clothes were all but burnt off, his charred, oozing skin riddled with bullet holes. The flesh of his cheeks had melted off from the blast of Pyro's flamethrower, revealing a skeletal grin and a hollowed nose. Blood and pink tissue dripped off of him like melting wax and littered the snow beneath his feet, mixing with the gunpowder and creating a swirling mosaic of black and red.

It was, quite simply, the most horrifying thing any of them had ever seen.

"Impossible...," Demoman gasped.

Crowder's eyes, reduced to withered beads, fell upon his reindeer skull helmet and pistol laying several yards away and the mercenaries knew they were doomed if he were to reach them. Crowder took one, great, hulking step towards his weapons.

"No!" Moesby cried. And before anyone could react, he sprang into action and leapt towards Crowder, ramming into him with his shoulder.

The two rolled and tumbled violently across the ice, the wind filling with the sounds of their grunts and growls. Spy dove and slid on his hip towards the reindeer skull helmet, snatching it off the ground and holding it to his chest protectively. They could not allow Crowder to get his hands on it, no matter what.

The other mercenaries regained their wits and made to join the fray, until they noticed what Moesby was doing. Not too far from where their battle raged on was a rather deep and lethal crevice; a darkened line of blue along the unforgiving white ice. Moesby wrestled and tumbled with Crowder, effectively leading him towards the drop off.

"Moesby!" Sniper shouted but his voice was lost in the wind.

Moesby finally managed to steer Crowder to the crevice's edge before he found himself pinned to the ground by his neck. The Spirit of Australian Christmas hovered over him; teeth bared as he squeezed his slave's throat with all of his strength. Moesby grappled for any foothold he could get before he planted his feet into Crowder's stomach and catapulted him over the edge. But Crowder's grip did not relent and in a flurry of tangled limbs, they both plummeted over the edge. Moesby managed to hook his fingers into the ice at the very last second; a futile attempt to buy him some time before he fell, but Crowder clung to his legs and weighed him down.

Sniper leapt towards the edge, sliding the rest of the way and extending his hand in the hopes that he could snatch Moesby's fingertips before they disappeared. But it was too late. He caught the last glimpse of Moesby's terrified face before the young slave lost his grip and fell into the black, endless abyss.

The man who had saved their lives was gone. Just like that.

Sniper sat back on his haunches, staring down the crevice in shock. The others inched towards him cautiously, not wanting to risk getting too close to the edge.

"He's gone," he whispered solemnly.

For the next few moments, the mercenaries remained glued to the spot; their bodies not quite in sync with their minds. It was so surreal to them to be fighting for their lives only seconds ago; a battle they were losing. Moesby had saved them again, but at the cost of his own life. It was an outcome none of them anticipated.

"We need to get out of here!" Soldier shouted, breaking the silence. "There's nothing more we can do! Move out!"

The mercenaries didn't need to be told twice. For all intents and purposes, their rescue mission had been fulfilled. Without any further words, they quickly began their perilous journey back to the plane.

* * *

"Finished!" Engineer exclaimed, whipping his goggles off. His eyes lit up with excitement.

Miss Pauling spun on her heels, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as she shivered. She had been staring out the window for what felt like an eternity, despite Medic's teasing. Her face was etched with worry and her glasses fogged with frost.

"But they're not back yet!" she said, her voice strained.

The teleporter hummed to life just then; its massive platform flickering and then bursting forth with red light. Its brightness spilled out of the fuselage windows and illuminated the air outside like a beacon.

"Then they'll hafta hurry," Engineer said heavily. "These things don't exactly have 'on/off' switches. How's the Medic?"

Miss Pauling's frown deepened as her eyes darted to the Medic; back still propped against the wall and his breathing ragged. His eyes were screwed shut in pain, his teeth still coated in a thin film of blood...

"He's dying," she said quietly, inching closer to the Engineer to keep their conversation private. "We can't wait on the others for much longer."

Engineer sighed. "I told ya, though. She's only got enough juice for one trip."

"I know. You can teleport back with the Medic and then send help."

"Send help from who? The Administrator? Those military folks? One of their men is dead because of us. In fact, we're in such deep shit, once we get back home with the Scout, it's not gonna matter what the Administrator said. Our careers are done for, anyway."

"We could pay the military off. More Australium."

Engineer shook his head. "There are only a few caches I know about. None of them will have enough to buy our way outta this. We're just going to have to face the consequences when we get back. Together."

The stress of the rescue mission and the idea of losing her team suddenly took its toll on Miss Pauling. Even if the mercenaries returned to the fuselage with the Scout, they would be in no less trouble than they started off with. In fact, they were sinking deeper into it with every passing moment. Dead pilot, wrecked multibillion dollar aircraft, dwindling Australium supply, missing work, and now the possible death of almost the entire RED team...

Miss Pauling ran her hands through the hair at her temples and took a deep, shaky breath. "We should have thought this through more carefully."

"Well...it's too late for that now. All we can do, for the time bein', is stick to the plan. One problem at a time."

The Medic let out a pained cough, then. Blood splattered his purple lips. He continued to keep his eyes clenched shut in pain, oblivious to the hushed conversation going on just feet away from him. Miss Pauling looked at him and her shoulders slumped hopelessly.

"How much time do we have?" she asked, her voice laced with disappointment and defeat.

"Before the power supply fades? 'Bout an hour."

"One hour?!"

* * *

"Are yeh  _sure_ this is the way we came?" Demoman shouted over the roaring arctic winds.

The mercenaries had been traveling for just under an hour, silent and sombre; one foot in front of the other out of no cognitive will of their own. They were tired, cold, beaten, and reflecting on the events that had transpired not long ago. None of them had said a single word up until now.

"Yes," Spy answered the Demoman, his brows furrowed as he trudged forward, holding the compass out in front of him. The needle was no longer swaying precariously but was now pointing north; the only direction they could possibly travel. "Keep walking."

Pyro muttered something.

"Yeah, I wish your flamethrower was working, too," Sniper replied and then looked at the Heavy. "How's the kid?"

Heavy gave Scout a gentle shake but noticed no change. "Scout is still Scoutcicle," he answered and shrugged.

Suddenly, a bright red light burst forth in the distance. The mercenaries turned to gape at it; like a lighthouse in the fog. They exchanged knowing glances and their vigor restored, they all but ran towards it. Their feet had difficulty finding purchase upon the ice and Heavy was finally starting to feel the effects of the cold seep through his thick skin, but they pushed forward relentlessly.

* * *

"We can't leave them! The whole point of this mission was to rescue one of them, not leave another six missing!" Miss Pauling cried.

"Then we'll come up with another solution!" Engineer snapped, packing up his tools. "But if this teleporter shorts out and none of us are back in Teufort, we're all gonna be stuck here until we die!"

He was right and Miss Pauling knew it. But her angst overpowered her logic as she paced the fuselage, staring longingly out the frosted windows in the hopes she'd see the team return.

"Take Medic back," she finally said. "I'll stay here. Send more help. I don't care who, I don't care how. Tell the Administrator."

Engineer's voice and face softened. "Now, I'm not just leavin' ya here, ma'am..."

"You have to. If I show up without you guys, she'll just consider you good as dead and find replacements. She thinks you're all psychotic morons, anyway." Truth be told, so did Miss Pauling, but she left that part out. "But if I'm here, she'll find a way to get me back. Just so she can fire me."

A particularly strong gust of wind rocked the cabin. Miss Pauling turned her gaze to the Medic, who had been unconscious for a while now; his chest rising and falling with increasing effort.

Engineer finally nodded, feeling pangs of guilt at the idea of leaving his team behind. But if they didn't do something about their situation now, then they'd be stuck there forever. What would be the point in rescuing the Scout if he were only to be brought back to the plane wreckage to die?

"I won't be long," he finally said. "I'll find a way to bring ya'll back. I promise."

Miss Pauling smiled sadly. "I know you will. I wouldn't trust anyone else for the job."

Engineer walked over to the Medic, squatting down next to him and draping one of the doctor's limp arms over his shoulder. Medic woke up groggily.

"Huh?" he rasped. "Vhat's going on?"

"I'm gettin' ya home, buddy," Engineer replied softly.

Medic looked around the plane in puzzlement. "But...vhere is zhe rest of zhe team?"

"They're comin'. C'mon. I'll help ya up."

Medic clung to the Engineer's shoulders for support. On the count of three, they both stood with a groan. Medic's face contorted into pain as his broken leg was jostled and he let out a strangled cough. Even the smallest effort left him wheezing and gasping for air. The journey to the teleporter was slow and agonizing.

"All right. One more step, buddy," Engineer said to his friend, guiding him.

Medic nodded and hopped on his good leg. "Danke."

Miss Pauling watched from the other end of the fuselage; her face etched with concern. She hugged her arms to herself and shivered, wondering just how they were going to get themselves out of this mess. At least the Medic was getting the help he needed. His internal injuries were severe, no doubt. The doctor glanced over his shoulder.

"Miss Pauling, if you vould be so kind as to retrieve my medi gun?"

"Of course," she said, all too happy to provide any assistance. But as she crossed the cabin to gather the weapon, something out the window caught the corner of her eye. She stiffened and let her mouth open slightly, running over to the windows and cupping her eyes against the frosted plexiglass.

"What is it?" asked the Engineer excitedly.

There, amidst the blowing ice and endless white landscape, Miss Pauling caught site of six red figures heading straight towards them.

"It's them!" she all but shrieked.

* * *

The mercenaries were practically dragging their feet across the ice by the time the fuselage of the aircraft came into view. Their breaths came out in wheezes and their chests ached, but they made it. Their parkas were almost completely obscured by a thin layer of ice and snow. Heavy, who was once amongst the leaders of the group, was now lagging behind as the arctic cold froze his joints and numbed his skin.

"The plane! It's the bloody plane!" Sniper suddenly shouted over the wind, his eyes wide with excitement behind his aviators.

The mercenaries looked up; their vigor renewed. The red light was no longer a phantom; the outlines of the fuselage finally joining it in the distance. They beamed at one another before breaking into a hobbled run.

It had seemed like no matter how far they had walked, the red light never got any closer. But now the airplane was rushing up to meet them at almost inhuman speeds. Demoman was the first to reach the fuselage door and pried it open with such force that he fell upon entering the cabin, remaining there on the floor and gasping for air as the others stumbled in after him just as chaotically. Sniper was the last to enter, supporting an increasingly drowsy Scout, and slammed the door shut behind him, thus ending the hurricane of wind, snow, and mercenaries.

"Oh my God," Miss Pauling gasped. "You're all alive!"

"Yes, we're surprised too," Spy said flatly.

For the first time, Miss Pauling noticed the state Scout was in. He looked like he gotten into a fist fight with a tank. "Is he...?"

"He's alive but we need to get 'im back to Teufort. Now," said Sniper.

The other mercenaries gently piled onto the platform; their faces full of apprehension. Spy was the last to step on, his focus on the reindeer skull helmet he held cautiously in his hands. He came before Miss Pauling, holding it like a chalice. Something about it made her tremble.

"Don't you guys have enough hats?" she joked, trying to seem unfazed. "Or is it just a spoil of war?"

Spy finally looked up at her and handed her the helmet. "Something like that. Though, it will have to be destroyed once we're back."

Miss Pauling nodded and studied the bizarre crown in her hands. "That can be arranged."

"There's gonna be about a three minute delay once we're all on," Engineer interrupted, scrambling around the edges of the teleporter and tweaking controls. "I hafta make sure the calibration and power levels are sound. Otherwise, we could end up anywhere."

"Sounds reassuring," Spy deadpanned.

The Engineer mumbled to himself, thinking aloud as he finished checking the last of the controls and then smiled. He nodded reassuringly to the others and hopped onto the platform. They all stood there huddled close and silent as the teleporter hummed and powered up. It was quite awkward. So when they snuck a glance at one another, they couldn't help but grin. What an ordeal they had been through: australium powered airplanes, a treacherous trek through Antarctica, electric force fields, and homicidal holiday figures... It had literally been the most adventurous and insane 24 hours of their lives. It was a wonder they were all standing there on the platform alive.

But they'd have plenty of time to reflect later. Seconds had passed and the hum of the teleporter intensified.

And then the main cabin door of the aircraft was abruptly ripped from its hinges. Cold air and blowing snow blasted the fuselage and sent debris whirling around the mercenaries. They ducked and flinched as the cabin rocked; eyes wide with wonderment and fear, for when the snow settled, there stood a mutilated figure.

Nicolas Crowder.

He was more like a hellish beast than a man. His clothes had long since burned off or melted to his flesh and he stood sulking like a skinned monster, leaving a trail of blood wherever he went.

"Impossible," Demoman whispered.

Miss Pauling was the first to respond. She darted forward, unsheathing a small gun from the inside of her boot. She aimed it determinedly and without warning, fired several shots into Crowder's head. But when the chamber emptied with a  _'click'_ , Crowder was still standing as furious as ever; his face unrecognizable.

Miss Pauling did not shrink back when the monster approached.

" _You have something that belongs to me,"_ he growled; his beady eyes falling on the reindeer crown in Miss Pauling's hand. Before the other mercs could pull her to safety, he descended upon her and lifted her up by her throat, ripping the helmet from her hands. She kicked and struggled, her fingernails ripping at the fingers clenched around her windpipe, but Crowder's grip was relentless.

" _Thank you, my dear,"_ he said and placed the helmet atop his head. Miss Pauling felt a cold shock jolt through her body as Crowder's powers returned to him.  _"And now, I'll kill you first..."_

"Scout!" Heavy shouted and Miss Pauling found herself being released, landing awkwardly on the ground and being pulled to safety upon the teleporter. She opened her eyes and gasped.

"Don't you lay a  _fuckin'_   _hand on her_!" Scout bellowed and rammed his shoulder into Crowder's stomach.

He reacted on instinct alone; every fiber of his being telling him to protect his team; to protect Miss Pauling. His team was frozen in astonishment. Seconds ago, he was barely clinging to life and now there he was, single-handedly fighting off the monster which threatened their very existence. Miss Pauling's mouth fell open. It was like watching a wild dog tear a man apart. She had seen many battles in her career, but nothing matched the ferocity in which Scout fought. And in that moment, she no longer saw an arrogant idiot; she saw a killer.

Just then, the teleporter's hum grew deafening and the crimson light that drowned the cabin grew brighter and brighter. The mercenaries tore their horrified eyes from the fight for only a split second to look at each other and realized what was happening. Miss Pauling lunged forward but was held back by Soldier.

"SCOUT!" she cried out. If he didn't somehow get on the platform, their entire mission would have been for naught. She turned, desperately, to the other mercenaries. "Help him!"

Heavy, Pyro, and Demoman lurched forward.

"No!" Engineer cried out, stopping everyone in their tracks. "His force field will short out the teleporter!"

Crowder focused an electric blast on Scout as he held him down by the neck. The merc bucked against the current, unable to inhale enough to scream. Desperately, his hands flung out to his sides and he grappled for anything he could find purchase on. His fingers fell upon another piece of shrapnel and despite the horrid agony he felt as it conducted and intensified the electricity beneath his fingertips, he swung it as hard as he could. It connected with Crowder so hard that the reindeer crown was, once again, blasted from his putrid skull. A chunk of metal spiraled away from Scout's shrapnel, as well, and he now held what looked like a flat baseball bat.

And then it dawned on him. The only way he could kill this son of a bitch once and for all...

_Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. Two outs. Yankees vs. Red Sox. Fenway Park._

Scout grinned impishly. "Batta... _swing_!"

It was an attack so fast that Crowder could barely raise his hands to block it before the shrapnel had already connected with his neck. There was a sickening  _'_ _squelch!'_ The metal sliced through his putrid flesh and continued through with such force that his spine cracked and sent a spray of blood across the Scout's face.

Crowder stood gaping, his beady eyes wide with astonishment. He gurgled and blood spewed from his mouth like a trickling waterfall. His severed head hit the floor with a loud  _'_ _thud!'_ before his body collapsed on top of Scout's heaving chest.

Nicolas Crowder, the Spirit of Australian Christmas, was finally, irrevocably,  _dead_.

Scout almost blacked out just then, panting under the weight of the headless corpse atop him. Time seemed to stop. That is, until he heard his team. They screamed his name and his eyes shot open.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" he gasped, wriggling out from underneath Crowder's body. But just as the team reached out for him and he stood to jump up on the platform, there was a flash of blinding light and then...silence.

Scout stopped, eyes wide and mouth open in horror. There was no more light. There was no more humming. The teleporter was dead.

His team was gone.


	7. The Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowder is defeated but the rescue mission turns into a complete disaster. Scout remains trapped in Antarctica until an unlikely hero comes to dig him out of an early grave.

"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!"

Scout frantically pulled himself to his feet, forgetting his injuries, forgetting Crowder. He scrambled up onto the lifeless teleporter and fell to his hands and knees, pounding his fists upon the flat, metal surface of the platform where his team once stood.

"C'MON!" he cried, his breaths now coming out in wheezes as he held back the panic that gripped him.

His shaking, bloodied fingers turned every knob and every control he could find. But nothing happened. Scout kneeled and his eyes darted around the machine; desperate to find a button he overlooked that could turn the teleporter back on. Nothing he did, though, stirred the machine back to life.

Wind rocked the cabin gently like a bassinet. Where the fuselage was once full of the sounds of screaming and fighting, Scout now felt naked in the relative silence; the only sound being the subtle creaking of the aircraft and the howling gale outside. He drank in his surroundings as the shock completely paralyzed him and his eyes fell upon the decapitated body of Nicolas Crowder. Scout's expression contorted from fear to rage. With an enormous growl, he launched himself off the teleporter and took his frustrations out on Crowder's head.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" he screamed and kicked the skull so hard that it flew into the fuselage wall and rolled into a pile of debris. He then turned and repeatedly planted his foot into Crowder's lifeless body, feeling his anger deepen with every audible crack of the corpse's ribs.

It didn't take long before the adrenaline wore off and the anguish and exhaustion set in. It was like his body had put itself in autopilot for the last fifteen minutes, ignoring its wounds and the fever that raged on inside it. But his reserves were now depleted and knowing that everything he had been through; everything he had  _done_ to get himself home was completely and utterly wasted, was too much. He gave Crowder one final, brutal kick, before the pain across his body had built up too much and he stumbled backwards. The back of his feet connected with the base of the teleporter and he involuntarily crumpled to the platform floor.

He lay there panting, eyes closed in agony, and then did something he hadn't done in a long, long time. Scout cried.

* * *

The Colorado Plateau was a picture of beauty. A quarter moon cast a navy hue across the sands and mountains in the distance. Crisp, dry air wound through the weeds and lured nocturnal desert-dwelling creatures out from their burrows. A million stars dotted the night sky; the hazy Milky Way band swirling across the top like a ribbon. It was silent; peaceful.

That is, until the explosion of red light.

Engineer's exit teleporter vibrated violently, sending a narrow shaft of intense light into the atmosphere. There was a loud crackling boom as if a thunderstorm had brewed over the desert and then, out of nowhere, eight mercenaries and an administrative assistant stumbled forth upon the whirring platform; their weapons clanging to the ground around them.

They groaned in discomfort as the effects of teleporting such a large distance took its toll on their bodies. For the next several moments, all they could do was lean on each other heavily before attempting to shift away. Engineer was the first to look up, rubbing his forehead with his palm and looking pallid. He glanced around his surroundings, taking in the dry air and the desolation around him.

"Are we home?" Heavy asked groggily.

Engineer's heart raced and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. There, in the darkness of the New Mexico desert, was the the RED team base hovering over them.

"I can't believe it," he whispered in awe. "We made it."

Spy had straightened up, brushing dust from his jacket and retrieving his beloved disguise kit from inside his lapel. The cigarette couldn't have been lit faster.

"Well, most of us," he said, frowning.

The others looked around the platform in bewilderment before it dawned on them. Their stomachs sank. Scout hadn't made it onto the teleporter...

"No," Miss Pauling whispered breathlessly. "No! He was so close!"

"Not close enough," Engineer replied wryly. He let out a deep sigh. "Dammit!"

The reality of the situation took a minute to fully sink in for the rest of them. There they stood in the middle of the desert, having just came from the coldest place on earth for a rescue mission that was a complete and utter failure. Everything they had worked for was now meaningless. Scout would be dead by tomorrow.

Demoman was the first to explode. "You mean te tell me tha' we just finished crashin' a plane into the South Pole, trekked through a god _damn_ blizzard, and battled a bloody homicidal Santa for absolutely nothin'?!"

"It would appear so," replied the Spy calmly, frowning and taking a nice, long drag of his cigarette.

Pryo shouted something inside of his mask, which could only be interpreted as a string of curses.

"Idiot," Sniper sighed. "That bleedin' idiot! If he had just stayed on the platform..."

"He saved our lives," Miss Pauling snapped. "Now stop your bitching and find a way to bring him back. We're not going to have wasted all this effort on nothing! Heavy! Get the Medic to the infirmary."

Heavy, who had been supporting the increasingly weakening doctor, nodded and led Medic gingerly off the platform. He hissed in pain, taking care not to jostle his broken leg; his lips still stained with blood and the blue tinge of hypoxia.

Miss Pauling continued to bark orders. She turned to Engineer. "You built a teleporter that got us back. You know it works now. Build another one. We can go back to the South Pole and get the Scout."

Engineer looked at Miss Pauling sadly and shook his head. "Can't. It required a hell of a lotta Australium, ma'am; a supply I've all but exhausted. It's just too far. We'll hafta find another way. Though, I think our options are fairly non-existent at this point."

Miss Pauling looked around, her eyes filled with desperation and hopelessness. "There has to be  _something_ we can do. We can't just leave him there to die."

But by now, the other mercenaries were already leaving the platform, dragging their feet across the ground as they slowly headed into the headquarters to nurse their wounds. Engineer put a giant hand on Miss Pauling's shoulders.

"It's over."

* * *

Scout couldn't be sure how much time had passed since he had been stranded inside the plane wreckage. The sun never seemed to move and the blizzard that raged on outside was unrelenting and blinding. He lay on his side upon the lifeless platform, tucked into one of the discarded parkas, and shivered against the icy chill that permeated the cabin, even though it physically pained him to do so.

His injuries had caught up with him again. He stared blankly into space, every ounce of whatever energy he had left drained with every passing moment. He couldn't be sure if he had a fever or not, but judging by the redness around his gunshot wound and his general feeling of malaise, it would have been no surprise. He just knew he had to stay awake by any means necessary. However, the cold and the wind gently rocking the fuselage was making this near impossible. All of the last 23 hours' worth of failures come crashing onto him all at once. He thought about how he was unable to defend himself, how Moesby had died protecting him, how he had failed his friends and wasted their time, and how his job and life were as good as over. Christmas would be in a week's time and he would be spending it as an ice cube at the bottom of the world. His mom would be so pissed.

Scout shifted to take some pressure off his injured hip; eyes shutting tight in discomfort. When he opened them again, he caught site of his reflection in a piece of blood-stained shrapnel. His skin was as white as the snow outside; eyes and nose lined with red. Dried blood was splattered intermittently amongst the bruises across his face. The gunshot wound in his hip had stopped bleeding ages ago but had tinted the front of his brown pants in copper. If it wasn't for his shallow breathing, Scout could have passed for a corpse.

At least he had gotten to see Miss Pauling, albeit briefly. He smiled beneath the rim of the parka's zipper.  _She came all the way down here just to find me._

Without even realizing it, Scout closed his eyes; a feeling of pained euphoria washing over him.

_Scout!_

His eyes shot back open; his body tingling as it was startled awake. But he couldn't get his bleary vision to focus. Scout blinked several times before he chalked it up his imagination and slowly let his eyes drift shut again.

_Scout! Wake up!_

This time there was no denying it. Scout came to faster than he ever had before. He wasn't hallucinating; he had definitely heard a voice. A very familiar voice.

"Hey man, up here! What happened? Where's the rest of your team?!"

Scout turned his face upward ever so slightly, squinting and blinking hard to clear his vision as a blurry figure hovered over him. His expression evolved from a sort of exhausted bewilderment to one of shock.

"Moesby?" he croaked. He shook his head and tried to sit up but Moesby pushed him back down.

"Hey, take it easy!"

Scout ignored him and sat up despite the pressure of Moesby's hand on his sternum. "You're alive? But...how!"

It seemed like both of them had a ton of explaining to do. Moesby stood, extending his hand out to Scout who took it without hesitation and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. They embraced clumsily and slapped each other on the back, as men often do, before Scout had to reach a hand out to balance himself against the fuselage wall. He had stood up too fast...

"I was fighting with your team," Moesby said. "They found me on the ice and we launched an attack on Crowder, right before he was about to kill you."

Scout blinked in amazement. He couldn't remember any of it. "So you survived his attack? Why didn't you come back here with the others?! They could have gotten you out of here!"

"Crowder and I fell down a crevice. But it was sloped. I only fell for a second and then I slid the rest of the way. I blacked out at the bottom; not sure how long. But when I woke up, I saw a trail of blood leading away through a tunnel of ice. So I followed it."

"And?"

"And it led back to the compound dungeon. I knew Crowder was alive and was going to go after you and the crown. So I headed out the stables and towards the plane wreckage your team mentioned. I just had to be sure. Even if Crowder was still alive, I wasn't going to wait around in the workshop for him to come back and finish what he started with me."

Moesby and Scout had both sauntered over to Crowder's decapitated body and glared down at the lifeless form of their former captor. Moesby felt a hurricane of emotions well up inside of him. He had spent his entire life a prisoner to a disturbed and abusive monster. He half expected Crowder to jump up off the floor like some headless horseman and continue fighting; such was his level of power and immortality. But it never happened. He was finally free.

"And how about you?" Moesby asked suddenly, turning his attention back to the Scout. "Tell me what happened!"

Scout swallowed. Anger and defeat were once again terrorizing him. "He was gonna kill my friends so I cut off his frickin' head...and then I was an idiot and didn't make it to the teleporter in time."

"For once, you're not an idiot," sighed Moesby, walking over to the reindeer helmet skull that now lay harmlessly on the floor. He bent down to pick it up and held it in his hands, studying it. "You killed a monster. You've now saved hundreds of lives. You've set me free."

"Yeah, and now we're stuck here. My team ain't comin' back."

Moesby smiled. "Well, then I guess you'll just have to get home yourself."

"How?"

The mercenary watched as Moesby removed his elf cap and placed the reindeer crown upon his head. Scout also realized that Moesby's ears were no longer pointed; as if Crowder's death had broken some sort of spell. Moesby smiled and without another word, walked across the fuselage and exited out the main cabin door. Curious and a little bit frustrated, Scout limped after him and when he was greeted with the cold arctic blizzard, he held a hand up to shield his face.

Amidst the whiteout, Scout watched Moesby approach a sleigh with nine kangaroos harnessed to each other in front of it; the leader of the bunch the same angry kangaroo he had fought during his earlier escape attempt. Instinctively, Scout backed up back into the cabin.

"It's ok!" Moesby shouted over the roar of the wind. "They wont hurt you!"

Scout was unconvinced. "That giant hoppin' rat tried ta kill me earlier!"

"He was just following orders. Now he has new ones."

Everything in Scout's being was telling him not to get in the sleigh. The sleigh was a vehicle of abduction and evil. The sleigh was Crowder's little Satanmobile.

"Do you want to go home or not?" Moesby asked impatiently.

Very reluctantly and cautiously, Scout inched forward out onto the ice, approaching the humongous kangaroos with apprehension, but they paid him no attention. He carefully climbed into the sleigh beside Moesby, unable to hide the discomfort it caused him. But then something amazing happened. The bitter cold stopped. The wind went silent. Ice and snow no longer bit at his skin. The same green and red shield of electricity that had kept him a prisoner inside the sleigh before had returned. But this time, he didn't feel trapped. He felt protected. Scout's eyes darted around in awe.

"How are you doin' this?"

Moesby smiled and opened up a hatch beneath their feet, revealing a hollowed out trunk of glowing, gold metal. Scout grinned.

"I shoulda known. Australium. Ha!" He shook his head and marveled at the powerful element below him.

"You know what this is?" Moesby asked incredulously.

"Yeah! Good stuff. I don't suppose you've got a stockpile somewhere around here 'cus I'm gonna need a shit ton to get outta the mess I'm in once I get back."

It was a rhetorical question, really. He never imagined in his wildest dreams that there'd be a cache of a rare, expensive, powerful metal untapped at the bottom of the world.

"Scout," Moesby said, beaming. "You are the luckiest man on earth!"

And with that, he grabbed the reigns and gave them a flick of his wrists. The sleigh launched off of the ground and shot forward at breathtaking speeds, leaving Scout clinging to his seat for dear life while Moesby laughed beside him.

* * *

Miss Pauling had found the Spy standing on a concrete balcony off the back of the RED team's base, staring idly off into the desert night and nursing a cigarette. His silhouette was not his usual tall and poised self but was rather tired as he leaned his shoulder against a pile of crates. A billow of wispy smoke trailed from the corner of his lips.

Sensing someone behind him, Spy only barely glanced over his shoulder before he looked forward again; Miss Pauling now at his side. For the longest time, they just stared out into the night; drinking in the sounds of crickets. Their breaths hung heavily in the cold air. Finally, it was Miss Pauling who broke the silence.

"Someone is going to have to tell his mother," she said quietly.

Spy closed his eyes for a long second before raising his cigarette up for another drag. "Isn't that your job?"

Miss Pauling, stung by Spy's coldness, stammered for a minute and felt her face heating up. "I suppose."

There was another long pause before Spy's features softened. "My apologies. I should have never allowed you to get involved in this mess."

"You didn't have a choice in the matter. I volunteered. I just wish something could have came of it."

"Mmm."

"I just...I just hate the idea of giving up, you know? This whole rescue mission was..."

"Stupid?"

"I was going to say 'noble'."

Spy dropped his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it with his heel. "How's the Medic?"

"He's healing. Engineer fixed the medi gun already. The others are all patched up, too."

She paused, stealing a guilty glance at the Spy. "How about you?"

"I'm fine," he replied a bit too quickly.

Miss Pauling, sensing the icy hostility in the Spy's voice, decided not to press the matter any further. She knew he must be feeling frustrated and guilty for not fulfilling the mission, but knew there was nothing she could say to him to make him realize that it wasn't his fault. It was nobody's fault.

Yet, there would be consequences for all of them.

"Why, exactly, did you come with us on this mission, Miss Pauling? Really?" Spy said, breaking the silence. His voice was a tad softer.

Miss Pauling paused. "...I told you before. It's my job to keep tabs on you guys."

Spy wasn't buying it for one second. He turned to face Miss Pauling and folded his arms over his chest. "Forgive me if I find that statement hard to believe."

In the bright moonlight of the desert, Miss Pauling's cheeks paled. She frowned hopelessly as she tried to come up with an explanation but in the end, her shoulders slumped and she could think of nothing but the truth.

"Fine," she said heavily. "I went...because I believed that Scout really had been kidnapped by the Spirit of Australian Christmas. And I believed that because...it happened to me."

Spy raised his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"I was taken by Nicolas Crowder as a child. I spent a year in his workshop as a slave, building weapons when I was only seven years old. How else do you think I became so knowledgeable about guns?"

Spy was nearly knocked off his feet in surprise. His mouth fell open. "You?  _You_ were abducted by the Spirit of Australian Christmas?"

Miss Pauling shrugged sheepishly. "I was a rotten kid. What can I say?" She closed her eyes behind her cat-eye glasses. "I just...I just wanted to..."

"Get revenge?"

"He ruined my childhood! I wanted to make him pay for what he did to me and those other kids! If Medic hadn't been hurt, I would have been the first out that airplane door to hunt him down.  _That's_ why I went with you guys. It was a personal vendetta. And I failed."

"You shot him six times in the head, Miss Pauling. I'd say your vendetta has been more than settled."

She looked down at her feet. "Well. It was the Scout that ended it all. We go there to save him from Nicolas Crowder and he saves us instead."

Spy had already lit up another cigarette. "Yes, well, he wouldn't have had it any other way."

This caused Miss Pauling to crack the tiniest hint of a smile. Spy was right. Scout was going to die a hero; with enough pride under his belt to make his head float into outer space. It's exactly the kind of thing he strived for. Proud, proud Scout...

Miss Pauling sighed and leaning forward onto the concrete balcony. She gazed at the thousands of stars that swirled across the black sky. One in particular was especially brilliant. Spy also had nothing more to contribute to the conversation. He finished nursing the last of his cigarette and flicked it over the edge of the balcony before turning his back on Miss Pauling and heading for the door.

"Get some rest," he said. "We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

But Miss Pauling didn't hear him. Her eyes remained transfixed on the brightly glowing star. It was growing in size with every passing second. But it wasn't an airplane, nor a helicopter; the air was void of any unmistakable sounds of engines or rotors.

"Spy," she said, not even realizing she had spoken. "Spy, what is that?"

The Spy peered over his shoulder and slowly turned his body. His eyes fell upon the same mass of light that Miss Pauling was gaping at. For a few moments, they stared hard at the twinkling ball and tried to focus on it and figure out just exactly what it was. All they could determine was that it was getting brighter and heading right for them.

"Get the others," Spy said quickly, and had ran through the door behind him before Miss Pauling could even peel her gaze away from the lighted spectacle in the sky.

* * *

"Hey, there it is!" Scout cheered, pointing ecstatically to the small dot of light amidst the dark, desolate valley. All of his troubles and injuries were forgotten as he grinned widely, staring wide-eyed and excited at his nearing home.

Moesby smiled, finding Scout's enthusiasm amusing. He gave the reigns another deft flick of his wrists and they swerved and dove through the air as Scout whooped happily. They were like two kids who had stolen their dad's Mercedes...

The glow of the lights inside the RED team base poured out into the desert as nine figures stumbled forth into the night, staring up at the sky in awe. Scout laughed; he couldn't wait to see the looks on his teammates' faces.

The sleigh was nearing the ground at terrifying speeds but Scout didn't care. He was as high on life as he'd ever been. He felt invincible. The sleigh pulled up at the last second, whooshing by the disheveled RED team and kicking up a whirlwind of dust before circling around the building and finally coming to a soft stop right before eight very bewildered mercenaries and an administrative assistant. The legs of the sleigh touched down gently on the earth.

"Merry Christmas, bitches!" Scout shouted, standing tall and outstretching his arms to present himself proudly to his gobsmacked teammates.

They couldn't speak. They could only stare wide-eyed in amazement at what could only be a ghost standing before them.

"How?" Medic was the first to break the silence.

"This guy!" Scout answered, jumping out of the sleigh and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Moesby. "This crazy guy!"

"But...we saw 'im die. He went into a crevice!" Sniper exclaimed.

"I got out," Moesby answered flatly. "And I went to the plane wreckage to make sure you guys got home. And that's when I found this stray dog of yours."

The mercenaries had inched closer now, unsure if what they were seeing was true or not. It had all happened so fast. One minute they were accepting the fact that they were all going to be fired tomorrow and probably arrested for killing a military official and crashing his top secret Australium-powered military plane in Antarctica, and the next they were staring at a man who should – by all accounts- be dead. (They were still fired and going to jail, though...)

Pyro pushed a finger into the Scout's chest as if checking to see if he were real. He muttered something.

"Of course it's really me, numbnuts," Scout replied.

And then Pyro hugged him, despite Scout's protests. Suddenly, the team erupted and bewildered faces turned into grins of relief. They surrounded the Scout, clasping him on the back and giving his shoulders friendly squeezes, all the while welcoming him back to the land of the living.

"Alright, alright, get the hell offa me! Geez, guys."

They had all backed off and given him some room by now, forgetting that only hours ago, he was nearly dead. Hell, they all were. Miss Pauling was the only one who hadn't joined the celebrations. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, watching the scene before her with a mixture of emotions, though her face remained placid.

Scout noticed her, then, and smugly sauntered over; licking his thumb and smoothing one of his eyebrows with it. He smiled his crooked, little grin at her. And though he looked tired and beaten, there was still that arrogant trademark spark in his blue eyes.

"And how  _you_ doin', Miss Pauling?" he flirted. "Were ya worried about me?"

Scout had hit on Miss Pauling many times before in the past (pretty much every time they crossed paths) and her reaction to him was almost always the same. She'd roll her eyes and scribble something on her clipboard before walking away. Luckily, Scout's attention span was so short that he never could dwell on the rejection long enough to be offended. He'd just pull out his scattergun and run off to shoot some poor BLU soul in the head as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

What he didn't expect was for Miss Pauling to gently cradle his face and pull him down to shut him up with a kiss. It was soft and simple, almost platonic. But it was enough to make Scout's toes curl. She pulled away faster than he would have liked, but she succeeded, at least, in silencing him into a stupor.

"That was for saving our lives," she said.

"No tongue? -OOF!" Scout clutched his stomach where he had just been punched.

"And that's for being an idiot!" Miss Pauling added on, her voice laced with irritation and her fist still clenched. "Do you have any idea how much trouble we're all in because of you?! I have to go to the Administrator tomorrow and explain to her how I missed a day of work to commandeer a multi-billion dollar, souped-up airplane and leave a military pilot dead to pull your ass out of the South Pole! And what was with that little stunt you pulled inside the plane? You almost  _died,_ Scout! There isn't enough Australium on earth that will buy our way out of this one."

Scout smirked, infuriating Miss Pauling even further. "You sure about that?" he asked smugly.

Moesby grinned and undid the drawstring of a very large sack laying innocently in the passenger compartment of the sleigh. Suddenly, the mercenaries' faces began glowing gold.

Engineer was the first to see it and his mouth nearly hit the ground. "Is that..?"

"Australium," Scout said, beaming. "A lot of it."

Miss Pauling's eyes were as wide as saucers. She stared gaping at the mass of gold before her, shining so brightly it was almost blinding. It was more than she'd ever seen in her life.

"H-how? Where?" Engineer stammered, eyeing the element in wonderment.

"The crevice," answered Moesby. "The drop curved and I slid into this underground deposit. Scout mentioned it'd probably be smart to take a few  _hundred_ kilos of it back to Teufort. So we made a small pit stop on the way here..."

"There's enough here to buy that entire military base," Miss Pauling gasped.

"Does zhis mean ve keep our jobs?" Medic asked, breaking up the tension.

Soldier walked up next to Scout and gave the young mercenary's shoulder a firm squeeze. He smiled and nodded. "You did good, son. You did real good."

Scout was drunk with happiness. Pain was eating him from the inside out but he ignored it as the euphoria of being home washed over him. He extended his hand to Moesby.

"Thanks," Scout said as Moesby firmly returned the handshake. "For everythin'."

"No, thank  _you_. We're all free now because of you."

Scout smiled. "Yeah, but I would have died in them vents if it weren't for you." He released Moesby's hand. "So, now that you ain't a prisoner anymore, where ya gonna go? You could stick around here if ya wanted. You could be a tenth cla-"

"I'm going back to the South Pole."

Scout looked as if he had just been punched in the gut. "What! Are you freakin' crazy?!"

Moesby chuckled and tipped his reindeer skull helmet. "Nicolas Crowder is dead. I'm considering this my ascension to the throne."

"But...you could go anywhere, DO anythin'! You're gonna head back to that wasteland and abduct kids?"

"No, you dumbass! But I got a sleigh. And enough Australium under that ice to fill a lot of stockings for decades to come. It's a job and someone's gotta do it. Besides, I've been away from the rest of the world for seventeen years. It's all I really know."

"But-"

"I can come and go as I please, now. Don't worry. I'll make everything right. And we may run into each other again someday. It's been fun, Scout."

He extended his hand again. Scout looked at it oddly and then nodded, taking it and bringing Moesby in for a slap on the back.

"Take care a' yourself, ya nut," he said quietly.

"You too."

Moesby smiled warmly and climbed back into the sleigh. He grabbed the reigns and yanked them, causing the kangaroos to lift into the air. With a wave, he bid the mercenaries farewell and took off into the sky, leaving a swirling trail of desert dust behind him. His sleigh soon became a bright dot of light in the sky, like a shooting star. And just when he was almost completely out of site, there was an explosion of swirling color. Ribbons of green, purple, and red danced along in a light show of epic proportions. Scout smirked as the other mercenaries gasped in awe.

"Show off."

And with that, he allowed himself to be led back into the base with the others for a much-deserved night's rest; the aurora shining in the sky behind him.


	8. The End

**Department of the Air Force**

**December 22, 1968**

**Blutarch and Redmond Mann Co.**

**1000 Badlands Dr. Ste 200**

**Teufort, NM 87400**

To Whom It May Concern,

On behalf of the United States Military and Teufort Air Force Base, we'd like to thank you for the 822 lbs of pure Australium gold, donated on behalf of the late Captain Jacob Paige who died in battle on December 18th, 1968. Captain Jacob Paige left behind no immediate family, so the contributions made in his name will go towards the NASA program, as he had requested in a previous will and testament. Captain Jacob Paige was truly dedicated to serving his country and was an exemplary pilot. To die fighting the Communist organizational leader, Nicolas Crowder, would have surely made him proud in his final moments.

Funeral services will be held outside of Teufort AFB, NM at 15:00 December 23, 1968.

Once again, thank you for your donation. All investigations into the death of Captain Jacob Paige have been closed. No further action is required. Have a joyous holiday.

Sincerely,

_General Thomas Reinold_

**Department of US Air Force**


End file.
